The diary of a man of fifty

MACMILLAN AND CO., Limirep

LONDON + BOMBAY * CALCUTTA + MADRAS
MELBOURNE

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

NEW YVORK * BOSTON ° CHICAGO
DALLAS ° SAN FRANCISCO

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltp.
TORONTO

THE DIARY

OF A MAN OF FIFTY

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

THE PATH OF DUTY
AND OTHER TALES

BY

HENRY JAMES

MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON
1923

COPYRIGHT

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

NOTE -

Or the stories contained in this volume, none of
which appeared in the “New York” edition, the
first is taken from The Madonna of the Future, and
Other Tales, 1879, the second from Tales of Three
Cities, 1884. The rest are from Stories Revived,
1885. Four of these last (A Day of Days, A Light
Man, A Landscape-Painter, Poor Richard) were
written at a much earlier time; they were first
published in American magazines between 1866

and 1869.
P.L.

CONTENTS

PAGE

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY I

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER .... 43
THE PATH OF DUTY . . ... 123
A DAY OF DAYS . . . ..., 177
ALIGHT MAN... ..... 209
GEORGINA’S REASONS . ....___.., 251
A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER. . . . 341
ROSE-AGATHE . : ; : ; : 389
POOR RICHARD . ; : ; : ; 415

THE DIARY
OF A MAN OF FIFTY

FLORENCE, April 5, 1874.—They told me I should
find Italy greatly changed; and in seven-and-twenty
years there is room for changes. But to me every-
thing is so perfectly the same that I seem to be
living my youth over again; all the forgotten im-
pressions of that enchanting time come back to me.
At the moment they were powerful enough; but
they afterwards faded away. What in the world
became of them ? What ever becomes of such things,
in the long intervals of consciousness? Where do
they hide themselves away ? in what unvisited cup-
boards and crannies of our being do they preserve
themselves? They are like the lines of a letter
written in sympathetic ink; hold the letter to the
fire for a while and the grateful warmth brings out
the invisible words. It is the warmth of this yellow
sun of Florence that has been restoring the text of
my own young romance; the thing has been lying
before me to-day as a clear, fresh page. There have
been moments during the last ten years when I have
felt so portentously old, so fagged and finished, that
I should have taken as a very bad joke any intima-
tion that this present sense of juvenility was still in
store for me. It won’t last at any rate; so I had
better make the best of it. But I confess it surprises
me. I have led too serious a life; but that perhaps,
after all, preserves one’s youth. At all events, I have
travelled too far, I have worked too hard, I have
lived in brutal climates and associated with tiresome

3

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

people. When a man has reached ‘his fifty-second
year without being, materially, the worse for wear—
when he has fair health, a fair fortune, a tidy con-
science and a complete exemption from embarrassing
relatives—I suppose he is bound, in delicacy, to write
himself happy. But I confess I shirk this obligation.
I have not been miserable; I won’t go so far as to
say that—or at least as to write it. But happiness
—positive happiness—would have been something
different. I don’t know that it would have been
better, by all measurements—that it would have left
me better off at the present time. But it certainly
would have made this difference—that I should not
have been reduced, in pursuit of pleasant images, to
disinter a buried episode of more than a quarter of
a century ago. I should have found entertainment
more—what shall I call it >—more contemporaneous.
I should have had a wife and children, and I should
not be in the way of making, as the French say,
infidelities to the present. Of course it’s a great
gain to have had an escape, not to have committed
an act of thumping folly ; and I suppose that, what-
ever serious step one might have taken at twenty-
five, after a struggle, and with a violent effort, and
however one’s conduct might appear to be justified
by events, there would always remain a certain
element of regret; a certain sense of loss lurking
in the sense of gain; a tendency to wonder, rather
wishfully, what might have been. What might have
been, in this case, would, without doubt, have been
very sad, and what has been has been very cheerful
and comfortable; but there are nevertheless two
or three questions I might ask myself. Why, for
instance, have I never married — why have I
never been able to care for any woman as I cared
for that one? Ah, why are the mountains blue
and why is the sunshine warm? Happiness miti-

4

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

gated by impertinent conjectures—that’s about my
ticket.

6th. —I knew it wouldn’t last ; it’s already passing
away. But I have spent a delightful day; I have
been strolling all over the place. Everything reminds
me of something else, and yet of itself at the same
time; my imagination makes a great circuit and
comes back to the starting-point. There is that well-
remembered odour of spring in the air, and the
flowers, as they used to be, are gathered into great
sheaves and stacks, all along the rugged base of the
Strozzi Palace. I wandered for an hour in the Boboli
Gardens ; we went there several times together. I
remember all those days individually ; they seem to
me as yesterday. I found the corner where she
always chose to sit—the bench of sun-warmed marble,
in front of the screen of ilex, with that exuberant
statue of Pomona just beside it. The place is exactly
the same, except that poor Pomona has lost one of
her tapering fingers. I sat there for half an hour,
and it was strange how near to me she seemed. The
place was perfectly empty—that is, it was filled with
her. I closed my eyes and listened; I could almost
hear the rustle of her dress on the gravel. Why do
we make such an ado about death? What is it
after all but a sort of refinement of life? She died
ten years ago, and yet, as I sat there in the sunny
stillness, she was a palpable, audible presence. I
went afterwards into the gallery of the palace and
wandered for an hour from room to room. The
same great pictures hung in the same places and the
same dark frescoes arched above them. Twice, of
old, I went there with her; she had a great under-
standing of art. She understood all sorts of things.
Before the Madonna of the Chair I stood a long time.
The face is not a particle like hers, and yet it reminded
me of her. But everything does that. We stood

5

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

and looked at it together once for half an hour; I
remember perfectly what she said.

8th.— Yesterday I felt blue—blue and bored; and
when I got up this morning I had half a mind to
leave Florence. But I went out into the street,
beside the Arno, and looked up and down—looked
at the yellow river and the violet hills, and then
decided to remain—or rather, I decided nothing. I
simply stood gazing at the beauty of Florence, and
before I had gazed my fill I was in good-humour
again, and it was too late to start for Rome. I
strolled along the quay, where something presently
happened that rewarded me for staying. I stopped
in front of a little jeweller’s shop, where a great
many objects in mosaic were exposed in the window ;
I stood there for some minutes—I don’t know why,
for I have no taste for mosaic. In a moment a
little girl came and stood beside me—a little girl
with a frowsy Italian head, carrying a basket. I
turned away, but, as I turned, my eyes happened
to fall on her basket. It was covered with a napkin,
and on the napkin was pinned a piece of paper,
inscribed with an address. This address caught my
glance—there was a name on it I knew. It was
very legibly written—evidently by a scribe who had
made up in zeal what was lacking in skill. Contessa
Salvi-Scavabellt, Via Ghibellima—so ran the super-
scription; I looked at it for some moments; it
caused me a sudden emotion. Presently the little
girl, becoming aware of my attention, glanced
up at me, wondering, with a pair of timid brown
eyes.

“Are you carrying your basket to the Countess
Salvi? ” I asked.

The child stared at me. ‘To the Countess
Scarabelli.””

“‘ Do you know the Countess ? ”

6

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

“ Know her? ”’ murmured the child, with an air
of small dismay.

‘“‘T mean, have you seen her?”

‘““ Yes, I have seen her.’”’ And then, in a moment,
with a sudden soft smile—“ E bella !’’ said the little
girl. She was beautiful herself as she said it.

“Precisely ; and is she fair or dark ? ”’

The child kept gazing at me. ‘‘ Bionda—btonda,”
she answered, looking about into the golden sunshine
for a comparison.

“‘ And is she young ? ”

‘“‘She is not young—like me. But she is not old
like—like——”’

‘“‘ Like me, eh ? And is she married ? ”

The little girl began to look wise. ‘‘ I have never
seen the Signor Conte.”

‘* And she lives in Via Ghibellina ? ”

“ Sscuro. In a beautiful palace.”

I had one more question to ask, and I pointed it
with certain copper coins. ‘‘ Tell me a little—is she
good : ? a9

The child inspected a moment the contents of her
little brown fist. ‘“‘It’s you who are good,” she
answered.

“ Ah, but the Countess ? ’’ I repeated.

My informant lowered her big brown eyes, with an
air of conscientious meditation that was inexpressibly
quaint. ‘To me she appears so,’ she said at last,
looking up.

“ Ah, then she must be so,” I said, “ because, for
your age, you are very intelligent.” And having
delivered myself of this compliment I walked away
and left the little girl counting her solds. .

I walked back to the hotel, wondering how I could
learn something about the Contessa Salvi-Scarabelli.
In the doorway I found the innkeeper, and near him
stood a young man whom I immediately perceived

7

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

to be a compatriot and with whom, apparently, he
had been in conversation.

“I wonder whether you can give me a piece of
information,’ I said to the landlord. ‘‘ Do you know
anything about the Count Salvi-Scarabelli ? ”

The landlord looked down at his boots, then slowly
raised his shoulders, with a melancholy smile. ‘I
have many regrets, dear sir ‘i

“You don’t know the name ? ”

“TIT know the name, assuredly. But I don’t know
the gentleman.”

I saw that my question had attracted the attention
of the young Englishman, who looked at me with
a good deal of earnestness. He was apparently
satisfied with what he saw, for he presently decided
to speak.

“The Count Scarabelli is dead,’’ he said, very
gravely.

I looked at him a moment; he was a pleasing
young fellow. ‘‘ And his widow lives,’ I observed,
“in Via Ghibellina ? ”’

‘“‘T daresay that is the name of the street.” He
was a handsome young Englishman, but he was
also an awkward one; he wondered who I was and
what I wanted, and he did me the honour to per-
ceive that, as regards these points, my appearance
was reassuring. But he hesitated, very properly,
to talk with a perfect stranger about a lady whom
he knew, and he had not the art to conceal his
hesitation. I instantly felt it to be singular that
though he regarded me as a perfect stranger, I had
not the same feeling about him. Whether it was
that I had seen him before, or simply that I was
struck with his agreeable young face—at any rate
I felt myself, as they say here, in sympathy with
him. If I have seen him before I don’t remember
the occasion, and neither, apparently, does he; I:

8

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

suppose it’s only a-part of the feeling I have had
the last three days about everything. It was this
feeling that made me suddenly act as if I had known
him a long time.

“Do you know the Countess Salvi? ” I asked.

He looked at me a little, and then, without resent-
ing the freedom of my question—‘‘ The Countess
Scarabelli you mean,’’ he said.

“Yes,” I answered ; ‘‘ she’s the daughter.”

“ The daughter is a little girl.”

“She must be grown up now. She must be—let
me see—close upon thirty.”

My young Englishman began to smile. ‘‘ Of whom
are you speaking ? ”’

“I was speaking of the daughter,’’ I said, under-
standing his smile. “ But I was thinking of the
mother.”

“Of the mother ? ”

“Of a person I knew twenty-seven years ago—
the most charming woman I have ever known. She
was the Countess Salvi—she lived in a wonderful
old house in Via Ghibellina.”’

“ A wonderful old house |’ my young Englishman
repeated.

“* She had a little girl,’’ I went on; “ and the little
girl was very fair, like her mother; and the mother
and daughter had the same name—Bianca.” I
stopped and looked at my companion, and he
blushed a little. ‘“‘ And Bianca Salvi,”’ I continued,
“was the most charming woman in the world.” He
blushed a little more, and I laid my hand on his
shoulder. “Do you know why I tell you this?
Because you remind me of what I was when I knew
her—when I loved her.’”’ -My poor young English-
man gazed at me with a sort of embarrassed and
fascinated stare, and still I went on. “I say that’s
the reason I told you this—but you'll think it a

9

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

strange reason. You remind me.of my younger self.
You needn’t resent that—I was a charming young
fellow. The Countess Salvi thought so. Her daughter
thinks the same of you.”

Instantly, instinctively he raised his hand to my
arm. “Truly?”

“* Ah, you are wonderfully like me!” I said, laugh-
ing. ‘That was just my state of mind. I wanted
tremendously to please her.’” He dropped his hand
and looked away, smiling, but with an air of in-
genuous confusion which quickened my interest in
him. ‘ You don’t know what to make of me,” I
pursued. ‘“ You don’t know why a stranger should
suddenly address you in this way and pretend to read
your thoughts. Doubtless you think me a little
cracked. Perhaps I am eccentric; but it’s not so
bad as that. I have lived about the world a great
deal, following my profession, which is that of a
soldier. I have been in India, in Africa, in Canada,
and I have lived a good deal alone. That inclines
people, I think, to sudden bursts of confidence. A
week ago I came into Italy, where I spent six months
when I was your age. I came straight to Florence
—I was eager to see it again, on account of associa-
tions. They have been crowding upon me ever so
thickly. I have taken the liberty of giving you a
hint of them.”” The young man inclined himself
a little, in silence, as if he had been struck with a
sudden respect. He stood and looked away for a
moment at the river and the mountains. “It’s very
beautiful,” I said.

“‘ Oh, it’s enchanting,” he murmured.

“That’s the way I used to talk. But that’s
nothing to you.”

He glanced at me again. “On the contrary, I
like to hear.”

“Well, then, let us take a walk. If you too are

TO

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

staying at this inn, we are fellow-travellers. We will
walk down the Arno to the Cascine. There are
several things I should like to ask of you.”

My young Englishman assented with an air of
almost filial confidence, and we strolled for an hour
beside the river and through the shady alleys of that
lovely wilderness. We had a great deal of talk: it’s
not only myself, it’s my whole situation over again.

“‘ Are you very fond of Italy ? ” I asked.

He hesitated a moment. ‘One can’t express
that.”

““ Just so; I couldn’t express it. I used to try—
I used to write verses. On the subject of Italy I
was very ridiculous.”’

“So am I ridiculous,” said my companion.

“No, my dear boy,” I answered, ‘‘ we are not
ridiculous; we are two very reasonable, superior
people.”

“The first time one comes—as I have done—it’s
a revelation.”

“Qh, I remember well ; one never forgets it. It’s
an introduction to beauty.”

“‘ And it must be a great pleasure,”’ said my young
friend, ‘‘ to come back.”

“Yes, fortunately the beauty is always here.
What form of it,” I asked, ‘‘ do you prefer ? ”’

My companion looked a little mystified ; and at
last he said, ‘‘ I am very fond of the pictures.”

“So was I. And among the pictures, which do
you like best ? ”’

“Qh, a great many.”

“So did I; but I had certain favourites.”’

Again the young man hesitated a little, and then
he confessed that the group of painters he preferred
on the whole to all others was that of the early
Florentines.

I was so struck with this that I stopped short.

II

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

“That was exactly my taste!” And then I

passed my hand into his arm and we went our way
again.
We sat down on an old stone bench in the Cascine,
and a solemn blank-eyed Hermes, with wrinkles
accentuated by the dust of ages, stood above us
and listened to our talk.

“The Countess Salvi died ten years ago,” I said.

My companion admitted that he had heard her
daughter say so.

“‘ After I knew her she married again,” I added.
“The Count Salvi died before I knew her—a couple
of years after their marriage.”

“Yes, I have heard that.”

“‘ And what else have you heard ? ”’

My companion stared at me; he had evidently
heard nothing.

‘She was a very interesting woman—there are a
great many things to be said about her. Later,
perhaps, I will tell you. Has the daughter the same
charm ? ”

“You forget,” said my young man, smiling, “ that
I have never seen the mother.”’

“Very true. I keep confounding. But the
daughter—how long have you known her ? ”’

““Qnly since I have been here. A very short
time.”

“ A week ? ”’

For a moment he said nothing. ‘“ A month.”

“ That’s just the answer I should have made. A
week, a month—it was all the same to me.”

“‘T think it is more than a month,” said the young
man.

“It’s probably six. How did you make her
acquaintance ? ”’

‘By a letter—an introduction given me by a
friend in England.”

12

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

“The analogy is complete,’’ I said. “‘ But the
friend who gave me my letter to Madame de Salvi
died many years ago. He, too, admired her greatly.
I don’t know why it never came into my mind that
her daughter might be living in Florence. Somehow
I took for granted it was all over. I never thought
of the little girl; I never heard what had become of
her. I walked past the palace yesterday and saw
that it was occupied ; but I took for granted it had
changed hands.”’

“The Countess Scarabelli,”’ said my friend,
“brought it to her husband as her marriage-portion.”

“‘T hope he appreciated it! There is a fountain.in
the court, and there is a charming old garden beyond
it. The Countess’s sitting-room looks into that
garden. The staircase is of white marble, and there
is a medallion by Luca della Robbia set into the wall
at the place where it makes a bend. Before you come
into the drawing-room you stand a moment in a great
vaulted place hung round with faded tapestry, paved
with bare tiles, and furnished only with three chairs.
In the drawing-room, above the fireplace, is a superb
Andrea del Sarto. The furniture is covered with pale
sea-green.”’

My companion listened to all this.

“The Andrea del Sarto is there ; it’s magnificent.
But the furniture is in pale red.”

“ Ah, they have changed it then—in twenty-seven
years.”

“And there’s a portrait of Madame de Salvi,”
continued my friend.

I was silent a moment. “I should like to see
that.”

He too was silent. Then he asked, “‘ Why don’t
you go and see it? If you knew the mother so well,
why don’t you call upon the daughter ? ”’

* From what you tell me I am afraid.”

13

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

“What have I told you to make you afraid ? ”

I looked a little at his ingenuous countenance.
“‘ The mother was a very dangerous woman.”

The young Englishman began to blush again.
“‘ The daughter is not,’’ he said.

“‘ Are you very sure ? ”’

He didn’t say he was sure, but he presently
inquired in what way the Countess Salvi had been
dangerous.

‘You must not ask me that,’’ I answered : “ for,
after all, I desire to remember only what was good in
her.” And as we walked back I begged him to render
me the service of mentioning my name to his friend,
and of saying that I had known her mother well and
that I asked permission to come and see her.

oth.—I have seen that poor boy half-a-dozen times
again, and a most amiable young fellow he is. He
continues to represent to me, in the most extra-
ordinary manner, my own young identity ; the cor-
respondence is perfect at all points, save that he is a
better boy than I. He is evidently acutely interested
in his Countess, and leads quite the same life with her
that I led with Madame de Salvi. He goes to see
her every evening and stays half the night; these
Florentines keep the most extraordinary hours. I
remember, towards 3 A.M., Madame de Salvi used to
turn me out. ‘‘ Come, come,’’ she would say, “ it’s
time to go. If you were to stay later people might
talk.”” I don’t know at what time he comes home,
but I suppose his evening seems as short as mine did.
To-day he brought me a message from his Contessa
—a very gracious little speech. She remembered
often to have heard her mother speak of me—she
called me her English friend. All her mother’s
friends were dear to her, and she begged I would do
her the honour to come and see her. She is always
at home of .an evening. Poor young Stanmer (he

14

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

is of the Devonshire Stanmers—a great property)
reported this speech verbatim, and of course it cap’t
in the least signify to him that a poor grizzled,
battered soldier, old enough to be his father, should
come to call upon his inmamorata. But I remember
how it used to matter to me when other men came;
that’s a point of difference. However, it’s only
because I’m so old. At twenty-five I shouldn’t have
been afraid of myself at fifty-two. Camerino was
thirty-four—and then the others! She was always
at home in the evening, and they all used to come.
They were old Florentine names. But she used to let
me stay after them all’; she thought an old English
name as good. What a transcendent coquette!...
But basta cost, as she used to say. I meant to go
to-night to Casa Salvi, but I couldn’t bring myself
to the point. I don’t know what I’m afraid of ;
I used to be in a hurry enough to go there once.
I suppose I am afraid of the very look of the place—
of the old rooms, the old walls. I shall go to-morrow
night. I am afraid of the very echoes.

toth.—She has the most extraordinary resemblance
to her mother. When I went in I was tremendously
startled ; I stood staring at her. I have just come
home; it is past midnight; I have been all the
evening at Casa Salvi. It is very warm—my window
is open—I can look out on the river, gliding past in
the starlight. So, of old, when I came home, I used
to stand and look out. There are the same cypresses
on the opposite hills.

Poor young Stanmer was there, and three or four
other admirers; they all got up when I came in. I
think I had been talked about, and there was some
curiosity. But why should I have been talked about ?
They were all youngish men—none of them of my time.
She is a wonderful likeness of her mother ; I couldn’t
get over it. Beautiful like her mother, and yet with

15

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

the same faults in her face; but with her mother’s
perfect head and brow and sympathetic, almost pity-
ing, eyes. Her face has just that peculiarity of her
mother’s, which, of all human countenances that I
have ever known, was the one that passed most
quickly and completely from the expression of gaiety
to that of repose. Repose, in her face, always
suggested sadness; and while you were watching it
witha kind of awe, and wondering of what tragic
secret it was the token, it kindled, on the instant,
into a radiant Italian smile. The Countess Scara-
belli’s smiles to-night, however, were almost uninter-
rupted. She greeted me—divinely, as her mother
used to do; and young Stanmer sat in the corner
of the sofa—as I used to do—and watched her while
she talked: She is thin and very fair, and was
dressed in light, vaporous black: that completes
the resemblance. The house, the rooms, are almost
absolutely the same ; there may be changes of detail,
but they don’t modify the general effect. There are
the same precious pictures on the walls of the salon
—the same great dusky fresco in the concave ceiling.
The daughter is not rich, I suppose, any more than
the mother. The furniture is worn and faded, and
I was admitted by a solitary servant who carried a
twinkling taper before me up the great dark marble
staircase.

‘ T have often heard of you,” said the Countess, as
I sat down near her; “my mother often spoke of
you.”

*‘ Often ? ’ I answered. ‘‘ I am surprised at that.”

“Why are you surprised? Were you not good
friends ? ”

“Yes, for a certain time—very good friends. But
I was sure she had forgotten me.”

“She never forgot,” said the Countess, looking at
me intently and smiling. ‘‘ She was not like that.”

16

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

“ She was not like most other women in any way,”
I declared.

“Ah, she was charming,” cried the Countess,
rattling open her fan. ‘‘I have always been very
curious to see you. I have received an impression
of you.”

“‘ A good one, I hope.”

She looked at me, laughing, and not answering
this : it was just her mother’s trick.

“‘* My Englishman,’ she used to call you—‘ tl mio
inglese.’ ”’

“‘T hope she spoke of me kindly,”’ I insisted.

The Countess, still laughing, gave a little shrug,
balancing her hand to and fro. ‘‘So-so; I always
supposed you had had a quarrel. You don’t mind
my being frank like this—eh ? ”’

“‘T delight in it ; it reminds me of your mother.”

“Every one tells me that. But I am not clever
like her. You will see for yourself.”

‘That speech,” I said, ‘‘ completes the resemblance.
She was always pretending she was not clever; and
in reality:

“In reality she was an angel, eh ? To escape from
dangerous comparisons I will admit then that I am
clever. That will make a difference. But let us talk
of you. You are very—how shall I say it ?—very
eccentric.”

“Ts that what your mother told you ? ”’

“To tell the truth, she spoke of you as a great
Original. But aren’t all Englishmen eccentric? All
except that one! ’’ and the Countess pointed to poor
Stanmer, in his corner of the sofa.

“Oh, I know just what he is,” I said.

“ He’s as quiet as a lamb—he’s like all the world,”
cried the Countess.

“ Like all the world—yes. He is in love with
you.”

17 Cc

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

She looked at me with sudden gravity. ‘I don't
object to your saying that for all the world—but I
do for him.”

‘ Well,’”’ I went on, “he is peculiar in this: he is
rather afraid of you.”’

Instantly she began to smile ; she turned her face
toward Stanmer. He had seen that we were talking
about him; he coloured and got up—then came
toward us.

‘“‘T like men who are afraid of nothing,’’ said our
hostess.

“I know what you want,” I said to Stanmer.
“You want to know what the Signora Contessa says
about you.”

Stanmer looked straight into her face, very gravely.
‘“‘T don’t care a straw what she says.”

“You are almost a match for the Signora Contessa,”
I answered. ‘“‘ She declares she doesn’t care a pin’s
head what you think.”

“I recognise the Countess’s style!’ Stanmer
exclaimed, turning away.

“One would think,’’ said the Countess, “‘ that you
were trying to make a quarrel between us.”

I watched him move away to another part of the
great saloon; he stood in front of the Andrea del
Sarto, looking up at it. But he was not seeing it ;
he was listening to what we might say. I often stood
there in just that way. ‘“‘ He can’t quarrel with you,
any more than I could have quarrelled with your
mother.”

“Ah, but you did. Something painful passed
between you.”

“Yes, it was painful, but it was not a quarrel. I
went away one day and never saw her again. That
was all.’”’

The Countess looked at me gravely. “ What do
you call it when a man does that ? ”

18

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

“‘ It depends upon the case.”

“‘ Sometimes,’’ said the Countess in French, “ it’s
a lacheté,”’

““ Yes, and sometimes, it’s an act of wisdom.”’

“ And sometimes,’’ rejoined the Countess, ‘‘ it’s a
mistake.”’

I shook my head. “ For me it was no mistake.”’

She began to laugh again. ‘‘ Caro Signore, you’re
a great original. What had my poor mother done
to you?”

I looked at our young Englishman, who still had
his back turned to us and was staring up at the
picture. “I will tell you some other time,” I said.

“‘T shall certainly remind you ; I am very curious
to know.” Then she opened and shut her fan two
or three times, still looking at me. What eyes they
have! ‘Tell me a little,” she went on, “if I may
ask without indiscretion. Are you married ? ”

“No, Signora Contessa.”

“Isn't that at least a mistake 2”

“Do I look very unhappy ?

She dropped her head a little to one side.” “ For
an Englishman—no ! ”’

“‘ Ah,” said I, laughing, ‘‘ you are quite as clever
as your mother.”

‘‘ And they tell me that you are a great soldier,”’
she continued; “ you have lived in India. It was
very kind of you, so far away, to have remembered
our poor dear Italy.”’

‘* Qne always remembers Italy ; the distance makes
no difference. I remembered it well the day I heard
of your mother’s death ! ”

“ Ah, that was a sorrow!”’ said the Countess.
‘ There’s not a day that I don’t weep for her. But
che vuole? She’s a saint in paradise.”’

“* Stcuro,”’ I answered ; and I looked some time at
the ground. “ But tell me about yourself, dear lady,”’

ig

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

I asked at last, raising my eyes. ‘“‘ You have also
had the sorrow of losing your husband.”

“IT am a poor widow, as you see. Che vuole?
My husband died after three years of marriage.”

I waited for her to remark that the late Count
Scarabelli was also a saint in paradise, but 1 waited
in vain.

“ That was like your distinguished father,’’ I said.

‘Yes, he too died young. I can’t’be said to have
known him; I was but of the age of my own little
girl. But I weep for him all the more.”

Again I was silent for a moment.

‘Tt was in India too,” I said presently, ‘‘ that I
heard of your mother’s second marriage.”’

The Countess raised her eyebrows.

‘In India, then, one hears of everything! Did
that news please you ? ”’

‘Well, since you ask me—no.”’

‘“‘T understand that,’’ said the Countess, looking at
her open fan. “I shall not marry again like that.”

‘“ That’s what your mother said to me,’’ I ventured
to observe.

She was not offended, but she rose from her seat
and stood looking at me a moment. Then:

“You should not have gone away!” she ex-
claimed.

I stayed for another hour; it is a very pleasant
house. Two or three of the men who were sitting
there seemed very civil and intelligent ; one of them
was a major of engineers, who offered me a profusion
of information upon the new organisation of the
Italian army. While he talked, however, I was
observing our hostess, who was talking with the
others ; very little, I noticed, with her young Inglese.
She is altogether charming—full of frankness and
freedom, of that inimitable dssinvoliura which in an
Englishwoman would be vulgar, and which in her is

20

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

simply the perfection of apparent spontaneity. But
for all her spontaneity she’s as subtle as a needle-
point, and knows tremendously well what she is
about. If she is not a consummate coquette....
What had she in her head when she said that I
should not have gone away ?—Poor little Stanmer
didn’t go away. I left him there at midnight.

12th.—I found him to-day sitting in the church of
Santa Croce, into which I wandered to escape from
the heat of the sun.

In the nave it was cool and dim ; he was staring
at the blaze of candles on the great altar, and think-
ing, I am sure, of his incomparable Countess. I sat
down beside him, and after a while, as if to avoid the
appearance of eagerness, he asked me how I had
enjoyed my visit to Casa Salvi, and what I thought
of the padrona.

“T think half-a-dozen things,” I said; ‘“ but I
can only tell you one now. She’s an enchantress.
You shall hear the rest when we have left the church.”

‘ An enchantress ? ’’ repeated Stanmer, looking at
me askance.

He is a very simple youth, but who am I to blame
him ?

“‘ A charmer,” I said ; ‘‘ a fascinatress ! ”’

He turned away, staring at the altar-candles.

“An artist — an actress,” I went on, rather
brutally.

He gave me another glance.

“‘T think you are telling me all,’’ he said.

“No, no,.there is more.” And we sat a long time
in silence.

At last he proposed that we should go out; and
we passed in the street, where the shadows had
begun to stretch themselves.

“IT don’t know what you mean by her being an
actress,”’ he said, as we turned homeward.

aT

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

‘“‘T suppose not. Neither should I have known, if
any one had said that to me.”

“You are thinking about the mother,” said
Stanmer. ‘‘ Why are you always bringing her in ? ”’

“My dear boy, the analogy is so great ; it forces
itself upon me.”

He stopped, and stood looking at me with his
modest, perplexed young face. I thought he was
going to exclaim, ‘‘ The analogy be hanged!” but
he said after a moment :

“Well, what does it prove ? ”’

“‘T can’t say it proves anything; but it suggests
@ great many things.”

“‘ Be so good as to mention a few,’’ he said, as we
walked on.

‘You are not sure of her yourself,” I began.

“Never mind that—go on with your analogy.”

“ That’s a part of it. You are very much in love
with her.”

“ That’s a part of it too, I suppose ? ”

“Yes, as I have told you before. You are in love
with her, and yet you can’t make her out; that’s
just where I was with regard to Madame de Salvi.”’

“And she too was an enchantress, an actress, an
artist, and all the rest of it ? ”

““She was the most perfect coquette I ever knew,
and the most dangerous, because the most finished.”

“What you mean, then, is that her daughter is a
finished coquette ? ”’

“ T rather think so.”’

Stanmer walked along for some moments in
silence.

“Seeing that you suppose me to be a—a great
admirer of the Countess,” he said at last, “I am
rae surprised at the freedom with which you speak
of her.”

I confessed that I was surprised at it myself.

a2

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

“But it’s on account of the interest I take in
you.”

‘“‘T am immensely obliged to you! ”’ said the poor
boy.
“Ah, of course you don’t like it. That is, you
like my interest—I don’t see how you can help liking
that ; but you don’t like my freedom. That’s natural
enough ; but, my dear young friend, I want only to
help you. Ifa man had said to me—so many years
ago—what I am saying to you, I should certainly
also, at first, have thought him a great brute. But,
after a little, I should have been grateful—I should
have felt that he was helping me.”’

‘“‘’You seem to have been very well able to help
yourself,’ said Stanmer. “ You tell me you made
your escape.”’

“Yes, but it was at the cost of infinite perplexity
—of what I may call keen suffering. I should like to
save you all that.”

“I can only repeat—it is really very kind of you.”

“Don’t repeat it too often, or I shall begin to
think you don’t mean it.”

““ Well,”’ said Stanmer, “I think this, at any rate
—that you take an extraordinary responsibility in
trying to put a man out of conceit of a woman who,
as he believes, may make him very happy.”

I grasped his arm, and we stopped, going on with
our talk like a couple of Florentines.

‘Do you wish to marry her ? ”’

He looked away, without meeting my eyes. “ It’s
a great responsibility,” he repeated.

“‘ Before Heaven,” I said, ‘‘ I would have married
the mother! You are exactly in my situation.”

‘Don’t you think you rather overdo the analogy ?”’
asked poor Stanmer.

“A little more, a little less—it doesn’t matter.
I believe you are in my shoes. But of course if you

23

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

prefer it I will beg a thousand pardons and leave
them to carry you where they will.”

He had been looking away, but now he slowly
turned his face and met my eyes. ‘‘ You have gone
too far to retreat ; what is it you know about her ? ”’

“ About this one—nothing. But about the other

“T care nothing about the other ! ”

“My dear fellow,’’ I said, “ they are mother and
daughter—they are as like as two of Andrea’s
Madonnas.”

“If they resemble each other, then, you were
simply mistaken in the mother.”

I took his arm and we walked on again; there
seemed no adequate reply to such a charge. ‘‘ Your
state of mind brings back my own so completely,”
I said presently. ‘‘ You admire her—you adore her,
and yet, secretly, you mistrust her. You are en-
chanted with her personal charm, her grace, her wit,
her everything ; and yet in your private heart you
are afraid of her.’’

“ Afraid of her ? ” 3

“Your mistrust keeps rising to the surface ; yo
can’t rid yourself of the suspicion that at the bottom
of all things she is hard and cruel, and you would
be immensely relieved if some one should persuade
you that your suspicion is right.”

Stanmer made no direct reply to this ; but before
we reached the hotel he said, ‘‘ What did you ever
know about the mother ? ”’

* It’s a terrible story,’ I answered.

He looked at me askance. ‘‘ What did she do? ”

‘‘Come to my rooms this evening and I will tell

ou.”

He declared he would, but he never came, Exactly
the way I should have acted !

14th.—I went again, last evening, to Casa Salvi,

24

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

where I found the same little circle, with the addition
of a couple of ladies. Stanmer was there, trying hard
to talk to one of them, but making, I am sure, a
very poor business of it. The Countess—well, the
Countess was admirable. She greeted me like a friend
of ten years, toward whom familiarity should not
have engendered a want of ceremony ; she made me
sit near her, and she asked me a dozen questions
about my health and my occupations.

“T live in the past,’’ I said. “I go into the
galleries, into the old palaces and the churches.
To-day I spent an hour in Michael Angelo’s chapel,
at San Lorenzo.”

“Ah, yes, that’s the past,’”’ said the Countess.
“ Those things are very old.”

“‘ Twenty-seven years old,’’ I answered.

“Twenty-seven ? Aliro/”’

‘“‘I mean my own past,” I said. “I went to a
great many of those places with your mother.”

‘‘ Ah, the pictures are beautiful,”’ murmured the
Countess, glancing at Stanmer.

“ Have you lately looked at any of ‘hens "I
asked. ‘‘ Have you gone to the galleries with him?”’

She hesitated a moment, smiling. ‘‘ It seems to
me that your question is a little impertinent. But
I think you are like that.”

“A little impertinent ? Never. As I say, your
mother did me the honour more than once, to
accompany me to the Uffizzi.”

“‘ My mother must have been very kind to you.”

“So it seemed to me at the time.”

“ At the time, only ? ”

‘* Well, if you prefer, so it seems to me now.”

‘“‘ Eh,”’ said the Countess, ‘‘ she made sacrifices.”

“To what, cara Signora? She was perfectly free.
Your lamented father was dead—and she had not
yet contracted her second marriage.”

25

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

“If she was intending to marry again, it was all
the more reason she should have been careful.”

I looked at her a moment; she met my eyes
gravely, over the top of her fan. ‘“‘ Are you very
careful ? ’’ I said.

She dropped her fan with a certain violence. ‘ Ah,
yes, you are impertinent ! ”’

“Ah, no,” I said. ‘“‘ Remember that I am old
enough to be your father; that I knew you when
you were three years old. I may surely ask such
questions. But you are right; one must do your
mother justice. She was certainly thinking of her
second marriage.”

“You have not forgiven her that!” said the
Countess, very gravely.

“Have you ? ” I asked, more lightly.

“I don’t judge my mother. That is a mortal sin.
My step-father was very kind to me.”’

‘““T remember him,” I said; ‘‘I saw him a great
many times—your mother already received him.”’

My hostess sat with lowered eyes, saying nothing ;
but she presently looked up.

‘‘ She was very unhappy with my father.”

“That I can easily believe. And your ap bathe
—is he still living ? ”’

“‘ He died—before my mother.”’

“ Did he fight any more duels ? ”

‘‘He was killed in a duel,” said the Countess,
discreetly.

It seems almost monstrous, especially as I can give
no reason for it—but this announcement, instead of
shocking me, caused me to feel a strange exhilara-
tion. Most assuredly, after all these years, I bear
the poor man no resentment. Of course I controlled
my manner, and simply remarked to the Countess
that as his fault had been, so was his punishment.
I think, however, that the feeling of which I speak

26

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

was at the bottom of my saying to her that I hoped
that, unlike her mother’s, her own brief married life
had been happy.

“Tf it was not,” she said, ‘“‘I have forgotten it
now.”’—I wonder if the late Count Scarabelli was also
killed in a duel, and if his adversary . . . Is it on
the books that his adversary, as well, shall perish by
the pistol? Which of those gentlemen is he, I
wonder? Is it reserved for poor little Stanmer to
put a bullet into him? No; poor little Stanmer,
I trust, will do as I did. And yet, unfortunately for
him, that woman is consummately plausible. She
was wonderfully nice last evening; she was really
irresistible. Such frankness and freedom, and yet
something so soft and womanly; such graceful
gaiety, so much of the brightness, without any of
the stiffness, of good breeding, and over it all some-
thing so picturesquely simple and southern. She is
a perfect Italian. But she comes honestly by it.
After the talk I have just jotted down she changed
her place, and the conversation for half an hour was
general. Stanmer indeed said very little; partly, I
suppose, because he is shy of talking a foreign tongue.
Was I like that—was I so constantly silent? I
suspect I was when I was perplexed, and Heaven
knows that very often my perplexity was extreme.
Before I went away I had a few more words ¢éte-2-
téte with the Countess.

““T hope you are not leaving Florence yet,’’ she
said ; “ you will stay a while longer ? ”’

I answered that I came only for a week, and that
my week was over.

“I stay on from day to day, I am so much
interested.”

“Eh, it’s the beautiful moment. I’m glad our
city pleases you ! ”’

‘“‘ Florence pleases me—and I take a paternal

27

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

interest in our young friend,’ I added, glancing at
Stanmer. “I have become very fond of him.”

“* Bel tipo inglese,’’ said my hostess. ‘‘ And he is
very intelligent ; he has a beautiful mind.”

She stood there resting her smile and her clear,
expressive eyes upon me.

“‘T don’t like to praise him too much,” I rejoined,
“lest I should appear to praise myself; he reminds
me so much of what I was at his age. If your
beautiful mother were to come to life for an hour
she would see the resemblance.”

She gave me a little amused stare.

“And yet you don’t look at all like him ! ”’

“Ah, you didn’t know me when I was twenty-
five. Iwas very handsome! And, moreover, it isn’t
that, it’s the mental resemblance. I was ingenuous,
candid, trusting, like him.”

“Trusting ? I remember my mother once telling
me that you were the most suspicious and jealous
of men!”

“I fell into a suspicious mood, but I was, funda-
mentally, not in the least addicted to thinking evil.
I couldn't easily imagine any harm of any one.”

“And so you mean that Mr. Stanmer is in a
suspicious mood ? ”

“Well, I méan that his situation is the same as
mine.”

The Countess gave me one of her serious looks.

“‘Come,” she said, ‘‘ what was it—this famous
situation of yours? I have heard you mention it
before.”

“Your mother might have told you, since she
occasionally did me the honour to speak of me.”

“All my mother ever told me was that you were
a sad puzzle to her.”’

At this, of course, I laughed out—I laugh still as
I write it.

28

THE ‘DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

“ Well, then, that was my situation—I was a sad
puzzle to a very clever woman.”

“And you mean, therefore, that I am a puzzle to
poor Mr. Stanmer ? ”

“He is racking his brains to make you out.
Remember it was you who said he was intelligent.”

She looked round at him, and as fortune would
have it, his appearance at that moment quite con-
firmed my assertion. He was lounging back in his
chair with an air of indolence rather too marked for
a drawing-room, and staring at the ceiling with the
expression of a man who has just been asked a
conundrum. Madame Scarabelli seemed struck with
his attitude.

“Don’t you see,” I said, “he can’t read the
riddle ? ”’

“You yourself,’’ she answered, ‘‘ said he was in-
capable of thinking evil. I should be sorry to have
him think any evil of me.”’

And she looked straight at me—seriously, appeal-
ingly—with her beautiful candid brow. ‘

I inclined myself, smiling, in a manner which
might have meant :

‘* How could that be possible ? ”

“I have a great esteem for him,” she went on ;
“I want him to think well of me. If I am a puzzle
to him, do me a little service. Explain me to him.”

‘“‘ Explain you, dear lady ? ”

“You are older and wiser than he. Make him
understand me.”

She looked deep into my eyes for a moment, and
then she turned away.

26th.—I have written nothing for a good many
days, but meanwhile I have been half-a-dozen times
to Casa Salvi. I have seen a good deal also of my
young friend—had a good many walks and talks
with him. I have proposed to him to come with me

29

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

to Venice for a fortnight, but he won’t listerr to the
idea of leaving Florence. He is very happy in spite
of his doubts, and I confess that in the perception of
his happiness I have lived over again my own. This
is so much the case that when, the other day, he
at last made up his mind to ask me to tell him the
wrong that Madame de Salvi had done me, I rather
checked his curiosity. I told him that if he was bent
upon knowing I would satisfy him, but that it seemed
a pity, just now, to indulge in painful imagery.

“ But I thought you wanted so much to put me
out of conceit of our friend.”

“‘T admit I am inconsistent, but there are various
reasons for it. In the first place—it’s obvious—I am
open to the charge of playing a double game. I
profess an admiration for the Countess Scarabelli,
for I accept her hospitality, and at the same time I
attempt to poison your mind ; isn’t that the proper
expression? I can’t exactly make up my mind to
that, though my admiration for the Countess and my
desire to prevent you from taking a foolish step are
equally sincere. And then, in the second place you
seem to me on the whole so happy! One hesitates
to destroy an illusion, no matter how pernicious,
that is so delightful while it lasts. These are the
rare moments of life. To be young and ardent, in
the midst of an Italian spring, and to believe in the
moral perfection of a beautiful woman—what an
admirable situation! Float with the current; [I'll
stand on the brink and watch you.”’

“Your real reason is that you feel you have no
case against the poor lady,” said Stanmer. ‘“ You
admire her as much as I do.”

“‘ [ just admitted that I admired her. I never said
she was a vulgar flirt ; her mother was an absolutely
scientific one. Heaven knows I admired that! It’s
a nice point, however, how much one is bound in

30

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

honour not to warn a young friend against a dangerous
woman because one also has relations of civility with
the lady.”

“In such a case,” said Stanmer, ‘‘ I would break
off my relations.”

I looked at him, and I think I faughed.

“ Are you jealous of me, by chance ? ”’

He shook his head emphatically.

“‘ Not in the least ; I like to see you there, because
your conduct contradicts your words.”

“I have always said that the Countess is fasci-
nating.”

“ Otherwise,”’ said Stanmer, ‘in the case you
speak of I would give the lady notice.”’

““ Give her notice ? ”’

““ Mention to her that you regard her with sus-
picion, and that you propose to do your best to
rescue a simple-minded youth from her wiles. That
would be more loyal.” And he began to laugh again.

It is not the first time he has laughed at me;
but I have never minded it, because I have always
understood it.

“Is that what you recommend me to say to the
Countess ? ” I asked.

‘“‘Recommend you!” he exclaimed, laughing again ;
‘“‘T recommend nothing. I may be the victim to be
rescued, but I am at least not a partner to the con-
spiracy. Besides,” he added in a moment, “ the
Countess knows your state of mind.”

“‘ Has she told you so?”

Stanmer hesitated.

‘“‘She has begged me to listen to everything you
may say against her. She declares that she has a
good conscience.”’

“‘ Ah,” said I, “ she’s an accomplished woman | ”

And it is indeed very clever of her to take that
tone. Stanmer afterwards assured me explicitly that

31

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

he has never given her a hint of the liberties I have
taken in conversation with—what shall I call it ?—
with her moral nature; she has guessed them for
herself. She must hate me intensely, and yet her
manner has always been so charming to me! She
is truly an accomplished woman !

May 4th.—I have stayed away from Casa Salvi
for a week, but I have lingered on in Florence, under
a mixture of impulses. I have had it on my con-
science not to go near the Countess again—and yet
from the moment she is aware of the way I feel
about her, it is open war. There need be no scruples
on either side. She is as free to use every possible
art to entangle poor Stanmer more closely as I am
to clip her fine-spun meshes. Under the circum-
stances, however, we naturally shouldn’t meet very
cordially. But as regards her meshes, why, after all,
should I clip them? It would really be very interest-
ing to see Stanmer swallowed up. I should like
to see how he would agree with her after she had
devoured him—(to what vulgar imagery, by the way,
does curiosity reduce a man!) Let him finish the
story in his own way, as I finished it in mine. It is
the same story; but why, a quarter of a century
later, should it have the same dénotment? Let him
make his own dénotment.

5th.— Hang it, however, I don’t want the poor boy
to be miserable.

6th.—Ah, but did my dénotmeni then prove such
a happy one?

7th.—He came to my room late last night ; he was
much excited.

“‘ What was it she did to you ? ” he asked.

I answered him first with another question. ‘‘ Have
you quarrelled with the Countess ? ”

But he only repeated his own. ‘‘ What was it she
did to you?”

32

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

“Sit down and I'll tell you.” And he sat there
beside the candle, staring at me. ‘‘ There was a man
always there—Count Camerino.”’

“The man she married ? ”

“The man she married. I was very much in love
with her, and yet I didn’t trust her. I was sure that
she lied ; I believed that she could be cruel. Never-
theless, at moments, she had a charm which made it
pure pedantry to be conscious of her faults; and
while these moments lasted I would have done any-
thing for her. Unfortunately, they didn’t last long.
But you know what I mean ; am I not describing the
Scarabelli ? ”’

“The Countess Scarabelli never lied!” cried
Stanmer.

‘“That’s just what 1 would have said to any one
who should have made the insinuation! But I sup-
pose you are not asking me the question you put
to me just now from dispassionate curiosity.”

‘‘A man may want to know! ”’ said the innocent
fellow.

I couldn't help laughing out. “ This, at any rate,
is my story. Camerino was always there; he was
a sort of fixture in the house. If I had moments of
dislike for the divine Bianca, I had no moments
of liking for him. And yet he was a very agreeable
fellow, very civil, very intelligent, not in the least
disposed to make a quarrel with me. The trouble
of course was simply that I was jealous of him. I
don’t know, however, on what ground [ could have
quarrelled with him, for I had no definite rights. I
can’t say what I expected—I can’t say what, as the
matter stood, I was prepared todo. With my name
and my prospects, I might perfectly have offered
her my hand. I am not sure that she would have
accepted it—I am by no means clear that she wanted
that. But she wanted, wanted keenly, to attach me

33 D

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

to her; she wanted to have me about. I should
have been capable of giving up everything— England,
my career, my family—simply to devote myself to
her, to live near her and see her every day.”

“Why didn’t you do it, then ? ”’ asked Stanmer.

‘Why don’t you? ”’

‘“To be a proper rejoinder to my question,” he
said, rather neatly, “‘ yours should be asked twenty-
five years hence.”

‘“‘ It remains perfectly true that at a given moment
I was capable of doing as I say. That was what
she wanted —a rich, susceptible, credulous, convenient
young Englishman established near her en permanence.
And yet,” I added, ‘‘ I must do her complete justice.
I honestly believe she was fond of me.’ At this
Stanmer got up and walked to the window ; he stood
looking out a moment, and then he turned round.
‘You know she was older than I,” I went on.
‘“‘Madame Scarabelli is older than you. One day
in the garden, her mother asked me in an angry tone
why I disliked Camerino ; for I had been at no pains
to conceal my feeling about him, and something had
just happened to bring it out. ‘I dislike him,’ I said,
‘because you like him so much.’ ‘I assure you I
don’t like him,’ she answered. ‘He has all the
appearance of being your lover,’ I retorted. It was
a brutal speech, certainly, but any other man in my
place would have made it. She took it very strangely ;
she turned pale, but she was not indignant. ‘ How
can he be my lover after what he has done?’ she
asked. ‘What has he done?’ She hesitated a
good while, then she said: ‘ He killed my husband.’
“Good heavens!’ I cried, ‘and you receive him ?’
Do you know what she said? She said, ‘Che
vuole ?’””

“Ts that all ? ’ asked Stanmer.

“No; she went on to say that Camerino had

34

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

killed Count Salvi in a duel, and she admitted that
her husband’s jealousy had been the occasion of it.
The Count, it appeared, was a monster of jealousy
—he had led her a dreadful life. He himself, mean-
while, had been anything but irreproachable ; he had
done a mortal injury to a man of whom he pretended
to be a friend, and this affair had become notorious.
The gentleman in question had demanded satisfaction
for his outraged honour; but for some reason or
other (the Countess, to do her justice, did not tell me
that her husband was a coward), he had not as yet
obtained it. The duel with Camerino had come on
first; in an access of jealous fury the Count had
struck Camerino in the face; and this outrage, I
know not how justly, was deemed expiable before
the other. By an extraordinary arrangement (the
Italians have certainly no sense of fair play), the
other man was allowed to be Camerino’s second.
The duel was fought with swords, and the Count
received a wound of which, though at first it was
not expected to be fatal, he died on the following
day. The matter was hushed up as much as possible
for the sake of the Countess’s good name, and so
successfully that it was presently observed that,
among the public, the other gentleman had the
credit of having put his blade through M. de Salvi.
This gentleman took a fancy not to contradict the
impression, and it was allowed to subsist. So long as
he consented, it was of course in Camerino’s interest
not to contradict it, as it left him much more free to
keep up his intimacy with the Countess.”

Stanmer had listened to all this with extreme
attention. ‘‘ Why didn’t ske contradict it ? ”

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘‘ I am bound to believe
it was for the same reason. I was horrified, at any
rate, by the whole story. I was extremely shocked
at the Countess’s want of dignity in continuing to

35

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

see the man by whose hand her husband had
fallen.’’

“The husband had been a great brute, and it was
not known,” said Stanmer.

‘Its not being known made no difference. And
as for Salvi having been a brute, that is but a way
of saying that his wife, and the man whom his wife
subsequently married, didn’t like him.”’

Stanmer looked extremely meditative ; his eyes
were fixed on mine. ‘“ Yes, that marriage is hard
to get over. It was not becoming.”

“ Ah,” said I, ‘‘ what a long breath I drew when I
heard of it! I remember the place and the hour. It
was at a hill-station in India, seven years after I had
left Florence. The post brought me some English
papers, and in one of them was a letter from Italy,
with a lot of so-called ‘fashionable intelligence.’
There, among various scandals in high life, and other
delectable items, I read that the Countess Bianca
Salvi, famous for some years as the presiding genius
of the most agreeable salon in Florence, was about
to bestow her hand upon Count Camerino, a dis-
tinguished Bolognese. Ah, my dear boy, it was a
tremendous escape! I had been ready to marry the
woman who was capable of that! But my instinct
had warned me, and I had trusted my instinct.”

“* Instinct’s everything,’ as Falstaff says!’’ And
Stanmer began to laugh. “ Did you tell Madame de
Salvi that your instinct was against her ? ”’

““No; I told her that she frightened me, shocked
me, horrified me.’’

“That’s about the same thing. And what did
she say?”

** She asked me what I would have? I called her
friendship with Camerino a scandal, and she answered
that her husband had been a brute. Besides, no one
knew it; therefore it was no scandal. Just your

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

argument! I retorted that this was odious reasoning,
and that she had no moral sense. We had a passion-
ate argument, and I declared I would never see her
again. In the heat of my displeasure I left Florence,
and I kept my vow. I never saw her again.”

“You couldn’t have been much in love with her,”’
said Stanmer.

“TI was not—three months after.”

“Tf you had been you would have come back—
three days after.”’

‘‘So doubtless it seems to you. All I can say is
that it was the great effort of my life. Being a
military man, I have had on various occasions to
face the enemy. But it was not then I needed my
resolution ; it was when I left Florence in a post-
chaise.”

Stanmer turned about the room two or three times,
and then he said: “I don’t understand! I don’t
understand why she should have told you that
Camerino had killed her husband. It could anly
damage her.” "

“‘ She was afraid it would damage her more that I
should think he was her lover. She wished to say
the thing that would most effectually persuade me
that he was not her lover—that he could never be.
And then she wished to get the credit of being very
frank.”’

“Good heavens, how you must have analysed
her | ’” cried my companion, staring.

“There is nothing so analytic as disillusionment.
But there it is. She married Camerino.”

“Yes, I don’t like that,” said Stanmer. He was
silent a while, and then he added—“ Perhaps she
wouldn’t have done so if you had remained.”’

-He has a little innocent way! ‘ Very likely she
would have dispensed with the ceremony,” I answered
dryly.

| 37

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

“Upon my word,” he said, ‘‘ you have analysed
her!”

“You ought to be grateful tome. I have done for
you what you seem unable to do for yourself.”

“T don’t see any Camerino in my case,’ he said.

“Perhaps among those gentlemen I can find one
for you.”

“Thank you,” he cried; “I'll take care of that
myself !’’ And he went away—satisfied, I hope.

1oth.—He’s an obstinate little wretch ; it irritates
me to see him sticking to it.. Perhaps he is looking
for his Camerino. I shall leave him at any rate to
his fate ; it is growing insupportably hot.

11th.—I went this evening to bid farewell to: the
Scarabelli. There was no one there; she was alone
in her great dusky drawing-room, which was lighted
only by a couple of candles, with the immense
windows open over the garden. She was dressed in
white ; she was deucedly pretty. She asked me of
course why I had been so long without coming.

‘“‘T think you say that only for form,” I answered.
“ T imagine you know.”

“‘ Che ! what have I done ? ”’

““ Nothing at all. You are too wise for that.”’

She looked at me awhile. “I think you are a little
crazy.”
“Ah no, I am only too sane. I have too much
reason rather than too little.”’

“You have at any rate what we call a fixed idea.”

“There is no harm in that so long as it’s a good
one.”

“‘ But yours is abominable !”’ she exclaimed with
a laugh.

“Of course you can’t like me or my ideas. All
things considered, you have treated me with wonder-
ful kindness, and I thank you and kiss your hands.
I leave Florence to-morrow.”

38

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

“‘ I won't say I’m sorry ! ”’ she said, laughing again.
“But I am very glad to have seen you. I always
wondered about you. You are a curiosity.”

“Yes, you must find me so. A man who can
resist your charms! The fact is, I can’t. This even-
ing you are enchanting ; and it is the first time I have
been alone with you.”

She gave no heed to this; she turned away. But
in a moment she came back, and stood looking at me,
and her beautiful solemn eyes seemed to shine in the
dimness of the room.

“‘ How could you treat my mother so ? ”’ she asked.

““ Treat her so ? ”’

“ How could you desert the most charming woman
in the world ? ”’

“‘ It was not a case of desertion ; and if it had been
it seems to me she was consol

At this moment there was the sound of a step in
the ante-chamber, and I saw that the Countess per-
ceived it to be Stanmer’s.

“That wouldn’t have happened,” she murmured.
“‘ My poor mother needed a protector.”

Stanmer came in, interrupting our talk, and looking
at me, I thought, with a little air of bravado. He
must think me indeed a tiresome, meddlesome bore ;
and upon my word, turning it all over, I wonder at
his docility. After all, he’s five-and-twenty—and yet,
I must add, it does irritate me—the way he sticks !
He was followed in a moment by two or three of the
regular Italians, and I made my visit short.

“‘ Good-bye, Countess,’’ I said; and she gave me
her hand in silence. ‘‘ Do you need a protector ? ’’ I
added, softly.

She looked at me from head to foot, and then,
almost angrily :

“ Yes, Signore.”

But, to deprecate her anger, I kept her hand an

39

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

instant, and then bent my venerable head and kissed
it. I think I appeased her.

Botoena, 14th.—I left Florence on the 11th, and
have been here these three days. Delightful old
Italian town—but it lacks the charm of my Florentine
secret.

I wrote that last entry five days ago, late at night,
after coming back from Casa Salvi. I afterwards fell
asleep in my chair; the night was half over when I
woke up. Instead of going to bed, I stood a long
time at the window, looking out at the river. It
was a warm, still night, and the first faint streaks of
sunrise were in the sky. Presently I heard a slow
footstep beneath my window, and looking down, made
out by the aid of a street-lamp that Stanmer was
but just coming home. I called to him to come
to my rooms, and, after an interval, he made his
appearance.

“I want to bid you good-bye,” I said; ‘I shall
depart in the morning. Don’t go to the trouble of
saying you are sorry. Of course you are not ; I must
have bullied you immensely.”

He made no attempt to say he was sorry, but he
said he was very glad to have made my acquaintance.

“Your conversation,” he said, with his little
innocent air, ‘‘ has been very suggestive.”

““ Have you found Camerino ? ”’ I asked, smiling.

“‘ T have given up the search.”

“Well,” I said, ““some day when you find that
you have made a great mistake, remember I told
you so.”

He looked for a minute as if he were trying to
anticipate that day by the exercise of his reason.

“ Has it ever occurred to you that you may have
made a great mistake ? ”

“* Oh yes ; everything occurs to one sooner or later.”

That’s what I said to him; but I didn’t say that

40

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

the question, pointed by his candid young counten-
ance, had, for the moment, a greater force than it
had ever had before.

And then he asked me whether, as things had
turned out, I myself had been so especially happy.

Paris, December 17th.—A note from young Stan-
mer, whom I saw in Florence—a remarkable little
note, dated Rome, and worth transcribing.

““ My Dear General,—I have tt at heart to tell you
that I was married a week ago to the Countess Salvi-
Scarabelli. You talked me tnto a great muddle ; but
a month after that tt was all very clear. Things that
involve a risk ave like the Christian faith ; they must
be seen from the tnside.— Yours ever, E. S.

“P.S.—A fig for analogies unless you can find an
analogy for my happiness | ”’

His happiness makes him very clever. I hope it
will last !—I mean his cleverness, not his happiness.

Lonpon, April 19th, 1877.—Last night, at Lady
H ’s, [met Edmund Stanmer, who married Bianca
Salvi’s daughter. I heard the other day that they
had come to England. A handsome young fellow,
with a fresh contented face. He reminded me of
Florence, which I didn’t pretend to forget; but it
was rather awkward, for I remember I used to dis-
parage that woman to him. [I had a complete theory
about her. But he didn’t seem at all stiff; on the
contrary, he appeared to enjoy our encounter. I
asked him if his wife were there. I had to do that.

“Oh yes, she’s in one of the other rooms. Come
and make her acquaintance ; I want you to know her.”

“ You forget that I do know her.”

“Oh no, you don’t; you never did.” And he
gave a little significant laugh.

I didn’t feel like facing the cs-devant Scarabelli at
that moment ; so I said that I was leaving the house,
but that I would do myself the honour of calling upon

41

THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY

his wife. We talked for a minute of something else,
and then, suddenly, breaking off and looking at me,
he laid his hand on my arm. I must do him the
justice to say that he looks felicitous.

““ Depend upon it, you were wrong !”’ he said.

“* My dear young friend,” I answered, “‘ imagine the
alacrity with which I concede it.”

Something else again was spoken of, but in an
instant he repeated his movement.

“Depend upon it, you were wrong.”’

“IT am sure the Countess has forgiven me,’’ I said,
“and in that case you ought to bear no grudge. As
I have had the honour to say, I will call upon her
immediately.”

“TI was not alluding to my wife,’’ he answered.
“TI was thinking of your own story.”

“* My own story ? ”’

““So many years ago. Was it not rather a mis-
take? ”’

I looked at him a moment ; he’s positively rosy.

“That’s not a question to solve in a London
crush.”

And I turned away.

22nd.—I haven’t yet called on the ct-devani ; I am
afraid of finding her at home. And that boy’s words
have been thrumming in my ears—‘‘ Depend upon it,
you were wrong. Wasn’t it rather a mistake?’ Was
I wrong—was it a mistake? Was I too cautious—
too suspicious—too logical ? Was it really a protector
she needed—a man who might have helped her?
Would it have been for his benefit to believe in her,
and was her fault only that I had forsaken her?
Was the poor woman very unhappy? God forgive
me, how the questions come crowding in! If I
marred her happiness, I certainly didn’t ‘make my
own. And I might have made it—eh? That’s a
charming discovery for a man of my age !

42

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

43

I

Mrs. Daintry stood on her steps a moment, to
address a parting injunction to her little domestic,
whom she had induced a few days before, by earnest
and friendly argument—the only coercion or persua-
sion this enlightened mistress was ever known to use
—to crown her ruffled tresses with a cap; and then,
slowly and with deliberation, she descended to the
street. As soon as her back was turned, her maid-
servant closed the door, not with violence, but in-
audibly, quickly, and firmly ; so that when she reached
the bottom of the steps and looked up again at the
front—as she always did before leaving it, to assure
herself that everything was well—the folded wings of
her portal were presented to her, smooth and shining,
as wings should be, and ornamented with the large
silver plate on which the name of her late husband
was inscribed—which she had brought with her when,
taking the inevitable course of good Bostonians, she
had transferred her household goods from the “‘ hill ”’
to the ‘‘ new land,” and the exhibition of which, as
an act of conjugal fidelity, she preferred—how much,
those who knew her could easily understand—to the
more distinguished modern fashion of suppressing
the domiciliary label. She stood still for a minute
on the pavement, looking at the closed aperture of
her dwelling and asking herself a question ; not that
there was anything extraordinary in that, for she

45

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

never spared herself in this respect. She would
greatly have preferred that her servant should not
shut the door till she had reached the sidewalk and
dismissed her, as it were, with that benevolent, that
almost maternal, smile with which it was a part of
Mrs. Daintry’s religion to encourage and reward her
domestics. She liked to know that her door was
being held open behind her until she should pass
out of sight of the young woman standing in the
hall. There was a want of respect in shutting her
out so precipitately ; it was almost like giving her
a push down the steps. What Mrs. Daintry asked
herself was, whether she should not do right to ascend
the steps again, ring the bell, and request Beatrice,
the parlour-maid, to be so good as to wait a little
longer. She felt that this would have been a pro-
ceeding of some importance, and she presently decided
against it. There were a good many reasons, and
she thought them over as she took her way slowly
up Newbury Street, turning as soon as possible into
Commonwealth Avenue; for she was very fond of
the south side of this beautiful prospect, and the
autumn sunshine to-day was delightful. During the
moment that she paused, looking up at her house,
she had had time to see that everything was as fresh
and bright as she could desire. It looked a little
too new, perhaps, and Florimond would not like that ;
for of course his great fondness was for the antique,
which was the reason for his remaining year after year
in Europe, where, as a young painter of considerable,
if not of the highest, promise, he had opportunities
to study the most dilapidated buildings. It was a
comfort to Mrs. Daintry, however, to be able to say
to herself that he would be struck with her living
really very nicely—more nicely, in many ways, than
he could possibly be accommodated—that she was
sure of—in a small dark appartement de garcon in

46

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

Paris, on the uncomfortable side of the Seine. Her
state of mind at present was such that she set the
highest value on anything that could possibly help
to give Florimond a pleasant impression. Nothing
could be too small to count, she said to herself; for
she knew that Florimond was both fastidious and
observant. Everything that would strike him agree-
ably would contribute to detain him, so that if there
were only enough agreeable things he would perhaps
stay four or five months, instead of three, as he had
promised—the three that were to date from the day
of his arrival in Boston, not from that (an important
difference) of his departure from Liverpool, which was
about to take place.

It was Florimond that Mrs. Daintry had had in
mind when, on emerging from the little vestibule, she
gave the direction to Beatrice about the position of
the door-mat—in which the young woman, so carefully
selected, as a Protestant, from the British Provinces,
had never yet taken the interest that her mistress
expected from such antecedents. It was Florimond
also that she had thought of in putting before her
parlour-maid the question of donning a badge of
servitude in the shape of a neat little muslin coif,
adorned with pink ribbon and stitched together by
Mrs. Daintry’s own beneficent fingers. Naturally
there was no obvious connexion between the parlour-
maid’s coiffure and the length of Florimond’s stay ;
that detail was to be only a part of the general effect
of American life. It was still Florimond that was
uppermost as his mother, on her way up the hill,
turned over in her mind that question of the ceremony
of the front-door. He had been living in a country
in which servants observed more forms, and he would
doubtless be shocked at Beatrice’s want of patience.
An accumulation of such anomalies would at last
undermine his loyalty. He would not care for them

47

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

for himself, of course, but he would care about them
for her ; coming from France, where, as she knew by
his letters, and indeed by her own reading—for she
made a remarkably free use of the Atheneum—that
the position of a mother was one of the most exalted, he
could not fail to be frotssé at any want of consideration
for his surviving parent. As an artist, he could not
make up his mind to live in Boston; but he was a
good son for all that. He had told her frequently
that they might easily live together if she would only
come to Paris; but of course she could not do that,
with Joanna and her six children round in Clarendon
Street, and her responsibilities to her daughter
multiplied in the highest degree. Besides, during
that winter she spent in Paris, when Florimond was
definitely making up his mind, and they had in the
evening the most charming conversations, interrupted
only by the repeated care of winding-up the lamp, or
applying the bellows to the obstinate little fire—
during that winter she had felt that Paris was not her
element. She had gone to the lectures at the Sor-
bonne, and she had visited the Louvre as few people
did it, catalogue in hand, taking the catalogue volume
by volume; but all the while she was thinking of
Joanna and her new baby, and how the other three
(that was the number then) were getting on while
their mother was so much absorbed with the last.
Mrs. Daintry, familiar as she was with these anxieties,
had not the step of a grandmother ; for a mind that
was always intent had the effect of refreshing and
brightening her years. Responsibility with her was
not a weariness, but a joy—at least it was the nearest
approach to a joy that she knew, and she did not
regard her life as especially cheerless; there were
many others that were more denuded. She moved
with circumspection, but without reluctance, holding
up her head and looking at every one she met with a

48

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

clear, unaccusing gaze. This expression showed that
she took an interest, as she ought, in everything that
concerned her fellow-creatures ; but there was that
also in her whole person which indicated that she
went no farther than Christian charity required. It
was only with regard to Joanna and that vociferous
houseful—so fertile in problems, in opportunities for
devotion—that she went really very far. And now
to-day, of course, in this matter of Florimond’s visit,
after an absence of six years; which was perhaps
more on her mind than anything had ever been.
People who met Mrs. Daintry after she had traversed
the Public Garden—she always took that way—and
begun to ascend the charming slope of Beacon Street,
would never, in spite of the relaxation of her pace as
she measured this eminence, have mistaken her for a
little old lady who should have crept out, vaguely and
timidly, to inhale one of the last mild days. It was
easy to see that she was not without a duty, or at
least a reason—and indeed Mrs. Daintry had never in
her life been left in this predicament. People who
knew her ever so little would have felt that she was
going to call on a relation ; and if they had been to
the manner born they would have added a mental
hope that her relation was prepared for her visit. No
one would have doubted this, however, who had been
aware that her steps were directed to the habitation
of Miss Lucretia Daintry. Her sister-in-law, her
husband’s only sister, lived in that commodious nook
which is known as Mount Vernon Place; and Mrs.
Daintry therefore turned off at Joy Street. By the
time she did so, she had quite settled in her mind the
question of Beatrice’s behaviour in connexion with
the front-door. She had decided that it would never
do to make a formal remonstrance, for it was plain
that, in spite of the Old-World training which she
hoped the girl might have imbibed in Nova Scotia

49 E

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

(where, until lately, she learned, there had been an
English garrison), she would in such a case expose
herself to the danger of desertion; Beatrice would
not consent to stand there holding the door open for
nothing. And after all, in the depths of her con-
science Mrs. Daintry was not sure that she ought to ;
she was not sure that this was an act of homage that
one human being had a right to exact of another,
simply because this other happened to wear a little
muslin cap with pink ribbons. It was a service that
ministered to her importance, to her dignity, not to
her hunger or thirst; and Mrs. Daintry, who had
had other foreign advantages besides her winter in
Paris, was quite aware that in the United States the
machinery for that former kind of tribute was very
undeveloped. It was a luxury that one ought not to
pretend to enjoy—it was a luxury, indeed, that she
probably ought not to presume to desire. At the
bottom of her heart Mrs. Daintry suspected that such
hankerings were criminal. And yet, turning the thing
over, as she turned everything, she could not help
coming back to the idea that it would be very pleasant,
it would be really delightful, if Beatrice herself, as
a result of the growing refinement of her taste, her
transplantation to a society after all more elaborate
than that of Nova Scotia, should perceive the fitness,
the felicity, of such an attitude. This perhaps was
too much to hope; but it did not much matter, for
before she had turned into Mount Vernon Place
Mrs. Daintry had invented a compromise. She would
continue to talk to her parlour-maid until she should
reach the bottom of her steps, making earnestly one
remark after the other over her shoulder, so that
Beatrice would be obliged to remain on the threshold.
It is true that it occurred to her that the girl might
not attach much importance to these Parthian observa-
tions, and would perhaps not trouble herself to wait

50

®
A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

for their natural term ; but this idea was too fraught
with embarrassment to be long entertained. It must
be added that this was scarcely a moment for Mrs.
Daintry to go much into the ethics of the matter, for
she felt that her call upon her sister-in-law was the
consequence ofa tolerably unscrupulous determination.

51

II

LUCRETIA DAINTRY was at home, for a wonder ; but
she kept her visitor waiting a quarter of an hour,
during which this lady had plenty of time to consider
her errand afresh. She was a little ashamed of it;
but she did not so much mind being put to shame by
Lucretia, for Lucretia did things that were much more
ambiguous than any she should have thought of doing.
It was even for this that Mrs. Daintry had picked her
out, among so many relations, as the object of an
appeal in its nature somewhat ambiguous. Neverthe-
less, her heart beat a little faster than usual as she
sat in the quiet parlour, looking about her for the
thousandth time at Lucretia’s “‘ things,’’ and observing
that she was faithful to her old habit of not having
her furnace lighted until long after every one else.
Miss Daintry had her own habits, and she was the
only person her sister-in-law knew who had more
reasons than herself. Her taste was of the old fashion,
and her drawing-room embraced neither festoons nor
Persian rugs, nor plates and plagues upon the wall, nor
faded stuffs suspended from unexpected projections,
Most of the articles it contained dated from the year
1830 ; and a sensible, reasonable, rectangular arrange-
ment of them abundantly answered to their owner’s
conception of the decorative. A rosewood sofa against
the wall, surmounted by an engraving from Kaulbach ;
a neatly drawn carpet, faded, but little worn, and

52

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

sprigged with a floral figure ; a chimney-piece of black
marble, veined with yellow, garnished with an empire
clock and antiquated lamps ; half-a-dozen large mirrors,
with very narrow frames; and an immense glazed
screen representing, in the livid tints of early worsted-
work, a ruined temple overhanging a river—these were
some of the more obvious of Miss Daintry’s treasures.
Her sister-in-law was a votary of the newer school, and
had made sacrifices to have everything in black and
gilt; but she could not fail to see that Lucretia had
some very good pieces. It was a wonder how she
made them last, for Lucretia had never been supposed
to know much about the keeping of a house, and no
one would have thought of asking her how she treated
the marble floor of her vestibule, or what measures
she took in the spring with regard to her curtains.
Her work in life lay outside. She took an interest
in questions and institutions, sat on committees, and
had views on Female Suffrage—a movement which she
strongly opposed. She even wrote letters sometimes
to the Transcript, not “ chatty”’ and jocular, and
signed with a fancy name, but “ over ’’ her initials,
as the phrase was—every one recognised them—and
bearing on some important topic. She was not, how-
ever, in the faintest degree slipshod or dishevelled, like
some of the ladies of the newspaper and the forum ;
she had no ink on her fingers, and she wore her bonnet
as scientifically poised as the dome of the State House.
When you rang at her door-bell you were never kept
waiting, and when you entered her dwelling you were
not greeted with those culinary odours which, pervading
halls and parlours, had in certain other cases been
described as the right smell in the wrong place. If
Mrs. Daintry was made to wait some time before her
hostess appeared, there was nothing extraordinary in
this, for none of her friends came down directly, and
she never did herself. To come down directly would

53

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

have seemed to her to betray a frivolous eagerness for
the social act. The delay, moreover, not only gave
her, as I have said, opportunity to turn over her errand
afresh, but enabled her to say to herself, as she had
often said before, that though Lucretia had no taste,
she had some very good things, and to wonder both
how she had kept them so well, and how she had
originally got them. Mrs. Daintry knew that they
proceeded from her mother and her aunts, who had
been supposed to distribute among the children of the
second generation the accumulations of the old house
in Federal Street, where many Daintrys had been born
in the early part of the century. Of course she knew
nothing of the principles on which the distribution had
been made, but all she could say was that Lucretia had
evidently been first in the field. There was apparently
no limit to what had come to her. Mrs. Daintry was
not obliged to look, to assure herself that there was
another clock in the back parlour—which would seem
to indicate that all the clocks had fallen to Lucretia.
She knew of four other timepieces in other parts of the
house, for of course in former years she had often been
upstairs ; it was only in comparatively recent times
that she had renounced that practice. There had been
a period when she ascended to the second story as a
matter of course, without asking leave. On seeing that
her sister-in-law was in neither of the parlours, she
mounted and talked with Lucretia at the door of her
bedroom, if it happened to be closed. And there had
been another season when she stood at the foot of the
staircase, and, lifting her voice, inquired of Miss
Daintry—who called down with some shrillness in
return—whether she might climb, while the maid-
servant, wandering away with a vague cachinnation,
left her to her own devices. But both of these phases
belonged to the past. Lucretia never came into her
bedroom to-day, nor did she presume to penetrate into

34

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

Lucretia’s ; so that she did not know for a long time
whether she had renewed her chintz nor whether
she had hung in that bower the large photograph of
Florimond, presented by Mrs. Daintry herself to his
aunt, which had been placed in neither of the parlours.
Mrs. Daintry would have given a good deal to know
whether this memento had been honoured with a
place in her sister-in-law’s “‘ chamber ’’—it was by this
name, on each side, that these ladies designated their
sleeping-apartment ; but she could not bring herself to
ask directly, for it would be embarrassing to learn—
what was possible—that Lucretia had not paid the
highest respect to Florimond’s portrait. The point
was cleared up by its being revealed to her accidentally
that the photograph—an expensive and very artistic
one, taken in Paris—had been relegated to the spare-
room, or guest-chamber. Miss Daintry was very
hospitable, and constantly had friends of her own sex
staying with her. They were very apt to be young
women in their twenties; and one of them had
remarked to Mrs. Daintry that her son’s pertrait—he
must be wonderfully handsome—was the first thing
she saw when she woke up in the morning. Certainly
Florimond was handsome; but his mother had a
lurking suspicion that, in spite of his beauty, his aunt
was not fond of him. She doubtless thought he ought
to come back and settle down in Boston ; he was the
first of the Daintrys who had had so much in common
with Paris. Mrs. Daintry knew as a fact that, twenty-
eight years before, Lucretia, whose opinions even at
that period were already wonderfully formed, had not
approved of the romantic name which, in a moment of
pardonable weakness, she had conferred upon her rosy
babe. The spinster (she had been as much of a
spinster at twenty as she was to-day) had accused her
of making a fool of the child. Every one was reading
ald ballads in Boston then, and Mrs. Daintry had

55

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

found the name in a ballad. It doubled any anxiety
she might feel with regard to her present business to
think that, as certain foreign newspapers which her son
sent her used to say about ambassadors, Florimond was
perhaps not a persona grata to his aunt. She reflected,
however, that if his fault were in his absenting himself,
there was nothing that would remedy it so effectively
as his coming home. She reflected, too, that if she
and Lucretia no longer took liberties with each other,
there was still something a little indiscreet in her
purpose this morning. But it fortified and consoled
her for everything to remember, as she sat looking at
the empire clock, which was a very handsome one,
that her husband at least had been disinterested.

Miss Daintry found her visitor in this attitude, and
thought it was an expression of impatience ; which led
her to explain that she had been on the roof of her
house with a man who had come to see about repairing
it. She had walked all over it, and peeped over the
cornice, and riot been in the least dizzy ; and had come
to the conclusion that one ought to know a great deal
more about one’s roof than was usual.

“I am sure you have never been over yours,”’ she
said to her sister-in-law.

Mrs. Daintry confessed with some embarrassment
that she had not, and felt, as she did so, that she was
superficial and slothful. It annoyed her to reflect that
while she supposed, in her new house, she had thought
of everything, she had not thought of this important
feature. There was no one like Lucretia for giving
one such reminders.

“IT will send Florimond up when he comes,’’ she
said ; ‘‘ he will tell me all about it.”

“Do you suppose he knows about roofs, except
tumbledown ones, in his little pictures? I am afraid
it will make him giddy.’’ This had been Miss Daintry’s
rejoinder, and the tone of it was not altogether re-
. 56

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

assuring. She was nearly fifty years old; she had
a plain, fresh, delightful face, and in whatever part
of the world she might have been met, an attentive
observer of American life would not have had the
least difficulty in guessing what phase of it she
represented. She represented the various and en-
lightened activities which cast their rapid shuttle—
in the comings and goings of eager workers—from
one side to the other of Boston Common. She had
in an eminent degree the physiognomy, the accent,
the costume, the conscience, and the little eyeglass,
of her native place. She had never sacrificed to
the graces, but she inspired unlimited confidence.
Moreover, if she was thoroughly in sympathy with the
New England capital, she reserved her liberty; she
had a great charity, but she was independent and witty ;
and if she was as earnest as other people, she was not
quite so serious. Her voice was a little masculine ;
and it had been said of her that she didn’t care in the
least how she looked. This was far from true, for
she would not for the world have looked better than
she thought was right for so plain a woman.

Mrs. Daintry was fond of calculating consequences ;
but she was not a coward, and she arrived at her
business as soon as possible.

“ You know that Florimond sails on the zoth of this
month. He will get home by the 1st of December.”

“Oh yes, my dear, I know it ; everybody is talking
about it. I have heard it thirty times. That’s where
Boston is so small,’’ Lucretia Daintry remarked.

“Well, it’s big enough for me,”’ said her sister-in-
law. ‘“‘ And of course people notice his coming back ;
it shows that everything that has been said is false,
and that he really does like us.”’

“He likes his mother, I hope; about the rest I
don’t know that it matters.”

‘ Well, it certainly will be pleasant to have him,”

37

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

said Mrs. Daintry, who was not content with her
companion’s tone, and wished to extract from her
some recognition of the importance of Florimond’s
advent. “It will prove how unjust so much of the
talk has been.”’

“My dear woman, I don’t know anything about
the talk. We make too much fuss about everything.
Florimond was an infant when I last saw him.”

This was open to the interpretation that too much
fuss had been made about Florimond—an idea that
accorded ill with the project that had kept Mrs.
Daintry waiting a quarter of an hour while her hostess
walked about on the roof. But Miss Daintry con-
tinued, and in a moment gave her sister-in-law the
best opportunity she could have hoped for. ‘I don’t
suppose he will bring with him either salvation or the
other thing ; and if he has decided to winter among
the bears, it will matter much more to him than to any
one else. But I shall be very glad to see him if he
behaves himself ; and I needn’t tell you that if there
is anything I can do for him ” and Miss Daintry,
tightening her lips together a little, paused, suiting
her action to the idea that professions were usually
humbug.

‘“‘ There is indeed something you can do for him,”
her sister-in-law hastened to respond ; “ or something
you can do for me, at least,’’ she added, more dis-
creetly.

“ Call it for both of you. What is it?” and Miss
Daintry put on her eyeglass.

‘“‘T know you like to do kindnesses, when they are
veal ones; and you almost always have some one
staying with you for the winter.”

Miss Daintry stared. ‘“‘ Do you want to put him
to live with me? ”

“No, indeed! Do you think I could part with
him? It’s another person—a lady!”

58

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

“A lady! Is he going to bring a woman with
him 2”

“My dear Lucretia, you won’t wait. I want to
make it as pleasant for him as possible. In that case
he may stay longer. He has promised three months ;
but I should so like to keep him till the summer. It
would make me very happy.”’

“Well, my dear, keep him, then, if you can.”’

“‘ But I can’t, unless I am helped.”

“And you want me to help you? Tell me what I
must do. Should you wish me to make love to him? ”’

Mrs. Daintry’s hesitation at this point was almost
as great as if she had found herself obliged to say yes.
She was well aware that what she had come to suggest
was very delicate ; but it seemed to her at the present
moment more delicate than ever. Still, her cause was
good, because it was the cause of maternal devotion.
“What I should like you to do would be to ask
Rachel Torrance to spend the winter with you.”

Miss Daintry had not sat so much on committees
without getting used to queer proposals, and she had
long since ceased to waste time in expressing a vain
surprise. Her method was Socratic; she usually
entangled her interlocutor in a net of questions.

‘“ Ah, do you want her to make love to him ? ”

“No, I don’t want any love at all. In such a
matter as that I want Florimond to be perfectly free.
But Rachel is such an attractive girl; she is so
artistic and so bright.”’

“JT don’t doubt it; but I can’t invite all the
attractive girls in the country. Why don’t you ask
her yourself ? ”’

‘“‘It would be too marked. And then Florimond
might not like her in the same house ; he would have
too much of her. Besides, she is no relation of mine,
you know ; the cousinship—such as it is, it is not very
close—is on your side. I have reason to believe she

359

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

would like to come ; she knows so little of Boston, and
admires it so much. It is astonishing how little idea
the New York people have. She would be different
from any one here, and that would make a pleasant
change for Florimomd. She was in Europe so much
when she was young. She speaks French perfectly,
and Italian, I think, too; and she was brought up
in a kind of artistic way. Her father never did any-
thing ; but even when he hadn’t bread to give his
children, he always arranged to have a studio, and
they gave musical parties. That’s the way Rachel
was brought up. But they tell me that it hasn’t in
the least spoiled her; it has only made her very
familiar with life.’’

“Familiar with rubbish!’’ Miss Daintry ejaculated.

““ My dear Lucretia, I assure you she is a very good
girl, or I never would have proposed such a plan as
this. She paints very well herself, and tries to sell
her pictures. They are dreadfully poor—I don’t mean
the pictures, but Mrs. Torrance and the rest—and
they live in Brooklyn, in some second-rate boarding-
house. With that, Rachel has everything about her
that would enable her to appreciate Boston. Ofcourse
it would be a real kindness, because there would be
one less to pay for at the boarding-house. You haven’t
a son, sO you can’t understand how a mother feels.
I want to prepare everything, to have everything
pleasantly arranged. I want to deprive him of every
pretext for going away before the summer ; because in
August—I don’t know whether I have told you—I
have a kind of idea of going back with him myself.
I am so afraid he will miss the artistic side. I
don’t mind saying that to you, Lucretia, for I have
heard you say yourself that you thought it had been
left out here. Florimond might go and see Rachel
Torrance every day if he liked ; of course, being his
cousin, and calling her Rachel, it couldn't attract any

60

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

particular attention. I shouldn’t much care if it did,”’
Mrs. Daintry went on, borrowing a certain bravado
that in calmer moments was eminently foreign to
her nature from the impunity with which she had
hitherto proceeded. Her project, as she heard herself
unfold it, seemed to hang together so well that she
felt something of the intoxication of success. “I
shouldn’t care if it did,’’ she repeated, ‘‘so long as
Florimond had a little of the conversation that he is
accustomed to, and I was not in perpetual fear of his
starting off.”

Miss Daintry had listened attentively while her
sister-in-law spoke, with eager softness, passing from
point to point with a crescendo of lucidity, like a woman
who had thought it all out and had the consciousness
of many reasons on her side. There had been moment-
ary pauses, of which Lucretia had not taken advantage,
so that Mrs. Daintry rested at last in the enjoyment
of a security that was almost complete and that her
companion’s first question was not of a nature to
dispel.

“ It’s so long since I have seen her. Is she pretty?”
Miss Daintry inquired.

“She is decidedly striking; she has magnificent
hair!” her visitor answered, almost with enthusiasm.

‘Do you want Florimond to marry her ? ”

This, somehow, was less pertinent. ‘‘ Ah no, my
dear,” Mrs. Daintry rejoined, very judicially. ‘‘ That
is not the kind of education—the kind of milteu—one
would wish for the wife of one’s son.” She knew,
moreover, that her sister-in-law knew her opinion
about the marriage of young people. It was a
sacrament more high and holy than any words could
express, the propriety and timeliness of which lay
deep in the hearts of the contracting parties, below
all interference from parents and friends ; it was an
inspiration from above, and she would no more have

61

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

thought of laying a train to marry her son than she
would have thought of breaking open his letters.
More relevant even than this, however, was the fact
that she did not believe he would wish to make a wife
of a girl from a slipshod family in Brooklyn, however
little he might care to lose sight of the artistic side.
It will be observed that she gave Florimond the credit
of being a very discriminating young man ; and she
indeed discriminated for him in cases in which she
would not have presumed to discriminate for herself.

‘‘ My dear Susan, you are simply the most immoral
woman in Boston!’’ These were the words of which,
after a moment, her sister-in-law delivered herself.

Mrs. Daintry turned a little pale. ‘‘ Don’t you
think it would be right ? ” she asked quickly.

“To sacrifice the poor girl to Florimond’s amuse-
ment ? What has she done that you should wish to
play her such a trick? ’’ Miss Daintry did not look
shocked: she never looked shocked, for even when
she was annoyed she was never frightened ; but after
a moment she broke into a loud, uncompromisng
laugh—a laugh which her sister-in-law knew of
old and regarded as a peculiarly dangerous form of
criticism.

“I don’t see why she should be sacrificed. She
would have a lovely time if she were to come on.
She would consider it the greatest kindness to be
asked.”’

‘To be asked to come and amuse Florimond.”

Mrs. Daintry hesitated a moment. “I don’t see
why she should object to that. Florimond is certainly
not beneath a person’s notice. Why, Lucretia, you
speak as if there were something disagreeable about
Florimond.”

“My dear Susan,” said Miss Daintry, “I am
willing to believe that he is the first young man of
his time ; but, all the same, it isn’t a thing to do.”

62

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

“‘ Well, I have thought of it in every possible way,
and I haven’t seen any harm in it. It isn’t as if she
were giving up anything to come.”’

“ You have thought of it too much, perhaps. Stop
thinking for a while. I should have imagined you
were more scrupulous.”

Mrs. Daintry was silent a moment; she took her
sister-in-law’s asperity very meekly, for she felt that
if she had been wrong in what she proposed she
deserved a severe judgement. But why was she
wrong? She clasped her hands in her lap and rested
her eyes with extreme seriousness upon Lucretia’s little
pince-nez, inviting her to judge her, and too much
interested in having the question of her culpability
settled to care whether or no she were hurt. “ It is
very hard to know what is right,” she said presently.
“Of course it is only a plan; I wondered how it
would strike you.”

“You had better leave Florimond alone,’ Miss
Daintry answered. ‘‘I don’t see why you should
spread so many carpets for him. Let him shift for
himself. If he doesn’t like Boston, Boston can spare
him.”’

“You are not nice about him; no, you are not,
Lucretia! ’’ Mrs. Daintry cried, with a slight tremor
in her voice.

“ Of course I am not as nice as you—he is not
my son; but I am trying to be nice about Rachel
Torrance.”

“‘T am sure she would like him—she would delight
in him!” Mrs. Daintry broke out.

‘“ That’s just what I’m afraid of ; I couldn’t stand
that.”

“Well, Lucretia, I am not convinced,” Mrs.
Daintry said, rising, with perceptible coldness.’ ‘‘ It
is very hard to be sure one is not unjust. Of course
I shall not expect you to send for her; but I shall

63

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

think of her with a good deal of compassion, all
winter, in that dingy place in Brooklyn. And if you
have some one else with you—and I am sure you
will, because you always do, unless you remain alone
on purpose this year, to put me in the wrong—if you
have some one else I shall keep saying to myself:
‘Well, after all, it might have been Rachel!’ ”

Miss Daintry gave another of her loud laughs at
the idea that she might remain alone “ on purpose.”
“IT shall have a visitor, but it will be some one who
will not amuse Florimond in the least. If he wants
to go away, it won’t be for anything in this house
that he will stay.”

“T really don’t see why you should hate him,”’
said poor Mrs. Daintry.

“Where do you find that? On the contrary, I
appreciate him very highly. That’s just why I think
it very possible that a girl like Rachel Torrance—
an odd, uninstructed girl, who hasn’t had great
advantages—may fall in love with him and break
her heart.”’

Mrs. Daintry’s clear eyes expanded. “Is that
what you are afraid of ? ”’

“Do you suppose my solicitude is for Florimond ?
An accident of that sort—if she were to show him
her heels at the end—might perhaps do him good.
But I am thinking of the girl, since you say you
don’t want him to marry her.”

“It was not for that that I suggested what I did.
I don’t want him to marry any one—TI have no plans
for that,” Mrs. Daintry said, as if she were resenting
an imputation.

“‘ Rachel Torrance least of all! ’’ And Miss Daintry
indulged still again in that hilarity, so personal to
herself, which sometimes made the subject look so
little jocular to others. ‘“‘ My dear Susan, I don’t
blame you,” she said; “for I suppose mothers are

64

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

necessarily unscrupulous. But that is why the rest
of us should hold them in check.”

“It’s merely an assumption, that she would fall
in love with him,” Mrs. Daintry continued, with a
certain majesty ; “there is nothing to prove it, and
I am not bound to take it for granted.”’

“In other words, you don’t care if she should!
Precisely ; that, I suppose, is your véle. I am glad
I haven’t any children; it is very sophisticating.
For so good a woman, you are very bad. Yes, you
ave good, Susan ; and you ave bad.”

“T don’t know that I pretend to be particularly
good,’’ Susan remarked, with the warmth of one
who had known something of the burden of such a
reputation, as she moved toward the door.

‘You have a conscience, and it will wake up,”
her companion returned. “It will come over you
in the watches of the night that your idea was—as
I have said—immoral.”’

Mrs. Daintry paused in the hall, and stood there
looking at Lucretia. It was just possible that she was
being laughed at, for Lucretia’s deepest mirth was
sometimes silent—that is, one heard the laughter
several days later. Suddenly she coloured to the
roots of her hair, as if the conviction of her error
had come over her. Was it possible she had been
corrupted by an affection in itself so pure? “I only
want to do right,” she said softly. ‘I would rather
he should never come home than that I should go
too far.”

She was turning away, but her sister-in-law held
her a moment and kissed her. “‘ You are a delightful
woman, but I won’t ask Rachel Torrance!” This
was the understanding on which they separated.

65 F

III

Miss DAINTRY, after her visitor had left her, recognised
that she had been a little brutal; for Susan’s pro-
position did not really strike her as so heinous. Her
eagerness to protect the poor girl in Brooklyn was
not a very positive quantity, inasmuch as she had an
impression that this young lady was on the whole
very well able to take care of herself. What her
talk with Mrs. Daintry had really expressed was the
lukewarmness of her sentiment with regard to Flori-
mond. She had no wish to help his mother lay
carpets for him, as she said. Rightly or wrongly,
she had a conviction that he was selfish, that he
was spoiled, that he was conceited ; and she thought
Lucretia Daintry meant for better things than the
service of sugaring for the young man’s lips the pill
of a long-deferred visit to Boston. It was quite
indifferent to her that he should be conscious, in
that city, of unsatisfied needs. At bottom, she had
never forgiven him for having sought another way
of salvation. Moreover, she had a strong sense of
humour, and it amused her more than a little that
her sister-in-law—of all women in Boston—should
have come to her on that particular errand. It
completed the irony of the situation that one should
frighten Mrs. Daintry—just a little—about what
she had undertaken ; and more than once that day
Lucretia had, with a smile, the vision of Susan’s
66

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

countenance as she remarked to her that she was
immoral. In reality, and speaking seriously, she did
not consider Mrs. Daintry’s inspiration unpardonable ;
what was very positive was simply that she had no
wish to invite Rachel Torrance for the benefit of
her nephew. She was by no means sure that she
should like the girl for her own sake, and it was
still less apparent that she should like her for that
of Florimond. With all this, however, Miss Daintry
had a high love of justice; she revised her social
accounts from time to time to see that she had not
cheated any one. She thought over her interview
with Mrs. Daintry the next day, and it occurred to
her that she had been a little unfair. But she
scarcely knew what to do to repair her mistake, by
which Rachel Torrance also had suffered, perhaps ;
for after all, if it had not been wicked of her sister-
in-law to ask such a favour, it had at least been cool ;
and the penance that presented itself to Lucretia
Daintry did not take the form of despatching a
letter to Brooklyn. An accident came to her help,
and four days after the conversation I have narrated
she wrote her a note which explains itself and which
I will presently transcribe. Meanwhile Mrs. Daintry,
on her side, had held an examination of her heart;
and though she did not think she had been very
civilly treated, the result of her reflexions was to
give her a fit of remorse. Lucretia was right: she
had been anything but scrupulous; she had skirted
the edge of an abyss. Questions of conduct had
long been familiar to her; and the cardinal rule of
life in her eyes was, that before one did anything
which involved in any degree the happiness or the
interest of another, one should take one’s motives
out of the closet in which they are usually laid away
and give them a thorough airing. This operation,
undertaken before her visit to Lucretia, had been

67

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

cursory and superficial; for now that she repeated
it, she discovered among the recesses of her spirit a
number of nut-like scruples which she was astonished
to think she should have overlooked. She had really
been very wicked, and there was no doubt abour her
proper penance. It consisted of a letter to her sister-
in-law, in which she completely disavowed her little
project, attributing it to momentary intermission of
her reason. She saw it would never do, and she
was quite ashamed of herself. She did not exactly
thank Miss Daintry for the manner in which she had
admonished her, but she spoke as one saved from
a great danger, and assured her relative of Mount
Vernon Place that she should not soon again expose
herself. This letter crossed with Miss Daintry’s
missive, which ran as follows :—

My DEAR Susan—I have been thinking over our
conversation of last Tuesday, and I am afraid I went
rather too far in my condemnation of your idea with
regard to Rachel Torrance. If I expressed myself in
a manner to wound your feelings, I can assure you of
my great regret. Nothing could have been further from
my thoughts than the belief that you are wanting in
delicacy. I know very well that you were prompted by
the highest sense of duty. It is possible, however, I
think, that your sense of duty to poor Florimond is a
little too high. You think of him too much as that
famous dragon of antiquity—wasn’t it in Crete, or some-
where ?—to whom young virgins had to be sacrificed.
It may relieve your mind, however, to hear that this
particular virgin will probably, during the coming winter,
be provided for. Yesterday, at Doll’s, where I had gone
in to look at the new pictures (there is a striking Appleton
Brown), I met Pauline Mesh, whom I had not seen for
ages, and had half an hour’s talk with her. She seems
to me to have come out very much this winter, and to
have altogether a higher tone. In short, she is much
enlarged, and seems to want to take an interest in some-

68

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

thing. Ofcourse you will say: Has she not her children ?
But, somehow, they don’t seem to fill her life. You
must remember that they are very small as yet to fill
anything. Anyway, she mentioned to me her great
disappointment in having had to give up her sister, who
was to have come on from Baltimore to spend the greater
part of the winter. Rosalie is very pretty, and Pauline
expected to give a lot of Germans, and make things
generally pleasant. I shouldn’t wonder if she thought
something might happen that would make Rosalie a
fixture in our city. She would have liked this immensely ;
for, whatever Pauline’s faults may be, she has plenty of
family feeling. But her sister has suddenly got engaged
in Baltimore (I believe it’s much easier than here), so
that the visit has fallen through. Pauline seemed to
be quite in despair, for she had made all sorts of beauti-
fications in one of her rooms, on purpose for Rosalie ;
and not only had she wasted her labour (you know how
she goes into those things, whatever we may think,
sometimes, of her taste), but she spoke as if it would
make a great difference in her winter; said she should
suffer a great deal from loneliness. She says Boston is
no place for a married woman, standing on her own
merits; she can’t have any sort of time unless she hitches
herself to some attractive girl who will help her to pull
the social car. You know that isn’t what every one
says, and how much talk there has been the last two
or three winters about the frisky young matrons. Well,
however that may be, I don’t pretend to know much
about it, not being in the married set. Pauline spoke
as if she were really quite high and dry, and I felt so
sorry for her that it suddenly occurred to me to say
something about Rachel Torrance. I remembered that
she is related to Donald Mesh in about the same degree
as she is to me—a degree nearer, therefore, than to
Florimond. Pauline didn’t seem to think much of the
relationship—it’s so remote; but when I told her that
Rachel (strange as it might appear) would probably be
thankful for a season in Boston, and might be a good

69

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

substitute for Rosalie, why she quite jumped at the
idea. She has never seen her, but she knows who she
is—fortunately, for I could never begin to explain. She
seems to think such a girl will be quite a novelty in
this place. I don’t suppose Pauline can do her any
particular harm, from what you tell me of Miss Torrance ;
and, on the other hand, I don’t know that she could
injure Pauline. She is certainly very kind (Pauline, of
course), and I have no doubt she will immediately write
to Brooklyn, and that Rachel will come on. Florimond
won’t, of course, see as much of her as if she were staying
with me, and I don’t know that he will particularly care
about Pauline Mesh, who, you know, is intenselyAmerican ;
but they will go out a great deal, and he will meet them
(if he takes the trouble), and I have no doubt that
Rachel will take the edge off the east wind for him.
At any rate I have perhaps done her a good turn. I
must confess to you—and it won’t surprise you—that
I was thinking of her, and not of him, when I spoke to
Pauline. Therefore I don’t feel that I have taken a risk,
but I don’t much care if I have. I have my views, but
I never worry. I recommend you not to do so either—
for you go, I know, from one extreme to the other. I
have told you my little story ; itwasonmy mind. Aren’t
you glad to see the lovely snow ?—Ever affectionately
yours, i,

P.S.—The more I think of it, the more convinced I
am that you wll worry now about the danger for Rachel.
Why did I drop the poison into your mind ? Of course
I didn’t say a word about you or Florimond.

This epistle reached Mrs. Daintry, as I have
intimated, about an hour after her letter to her
sister-in-law had been posted ; but it is characteristic
of her that she did not for a moment regret having
made a retractation rather humble in form, and
which proved, after all, scarcely to have been needed.
The delight of having done that duty carried her
over the sense of having given herself away. Her

7O

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

sister-in-law spoke from knowledge when she wrote
that phrase about Susan’s now beginning to worry
from the opposite point of view. Her conscience,
like the good Homer, might sometimes nod; but
when it woke, it woke with a start; and for many
a day afterward its vigilance was feverish. For the
moment her emotions were mingled. She thought
Lucretia very strange, and that she was scarcely
in a position to talk about one’s going from one
extreme to the other. It was good news to her that
Rachel Torrance would probably be on the ground
after all, and she was delighted that on Lucretia the
responsibility of such a fact should rest. This re-
sponsibility, even after her revulsion, as we know, she
regarded as grave ; she exhaled an almost voluptuous
sigh when she thought of having herself escaped from
it. What she did not quite understand was Lucretia’s
apology, and her having, even if Florimond’s happiness
were not her motive, taken almost the very step which
three days before she had so severely criticised. This
was puzzling, for Lucretia was usually so consistent.
But all the same Mrs. Daintry did not repent of her
own penance; on the contrary, she took more and
more comfort in it. If, with that, Rachel Torrance
should be really useful, it would be delightful.

7T

IV

FLORIMOND DaINTRY had stayed at home for three
days after his arrival ; he had sat close to the fire, in
his slippers, every now and then casting a glance over
his shoulders at the hard white world which seemed to
glare at him from the other side of the window-panes.
He was very much afraid of the cold, and he was not
in a hurry to go out and meet it. He had met it, on
disembarking in New York, in the shape of a wave of
frozen air, which had travelled from some remote point
in the West (he was told), on purpose, apparently, to
smite him in the face. That portion of his organism
tingled yet with it, though the gasping, bewildered
look which sat upon his features during the first few
hours had quite left it. I am afraid it will be thought
he was a young man of small courage ; and on a point
so delicate I do not hold myself obliged to pronounce.
It is only fair to add that it was delightful to him to
be with his mother and that they easily spent three
days in talking. Moreover he had the company of
Joanna and her children, who, after a little delay,
occasioned apparently by their waiting to see whether
he would not first come to them, had arrived in a body
and had spent several hours. As regards the majority
of them, they had repeated this visit several times in
the three days, Joanna being obliged to remain at home
with the two younger ones. There were four older
ones, and their grandmother’s house was open to them

72

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

as a second nursery. The first day, their Uncle
‘lorimond thought them charming; and, as he had
srought a French toy for each, it is probable that this
mpression was mutual. The second day, their little
-uddy bodies and woollen clothes seemed to him to
1ave a positive odour of the cold—it was disagreeable
.O0 him, and he spoke to his mother about their “‘ wintry
smell.’’ The third day they had become very familiar ;
-hey called him ‘“ Florry ’’; and he had made up his
mind that, to let them loose in that way on his mother,
Joanna must be rather wanting in delicacy—not
nentioning this deficiency, however, as yet, for he
saw that his mother was not prepared for it. She
2vidently thought it proper, or at least it seemed
‘nevitable, that either she should be round at Joanna’s
or the children should be round in Newbury Street ;
or “‘ Joanna’s ’”’ evidently represented primarily the
sound of small, loud voices, and the hard breathing
‘hat signalised the intervals of romps. Florimond
was rather disappointed in his sister, seeing. her after
a long separation ; he remarked to his mother that
she seemed completely submerged. As Mrs. Daintry
spent most of her time under the waves with her
daughter, she had grown to regard this element as
sufficiently favourable to life, and was rather surprised
when Florimond said to her that he was sorry to see
she and his sister appeared to have been converted
into a pair of bonnes d’enfants. Afterward, however,
she perceived what he meant; she was not aware,
until he called her attention to it, that the little
Merrimans took up an enormous place in the in-
tellectual economy of two households. “‘ You ought
to remember that they exist for you, and not you for
them,” Florimond said to her in a tone of friendly
admonition ; and he remarked on another occasion
that the perpetual presence of children was a great
injury to conversation—it kept it down so much ;

73

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

and that in Boston they seemed to be present even
when they were absent, inasmuch as most of the
talk was about them. Mrs. Daintry did not stop
to ask herself what her son knew of Boston, leaving
it years before, as a boy, and not having so much as
looked out of the window since his return; she was
taken up mainly with noting certain little habits of
speech which he evidently had formed, and in won-
dering how they would strike his fellow-citizens. He
was very definite and trenchant ; he evidently knew
perfectly what he thought ; and though his manner
was not defiant—he had, perhaps, even too many of
the forms of politeness, as if sometimes, for mysterious
reasons, he were playing upon you—the tone in which
he uttered his opinions did not appear exactly to give
you the choice. And then apparently he had a great
many ; there was a moment when Mrs. Daintry vaguely
foresaw that the little house in Newbury Street would
be more crowded with Florimond’s views than it had
ever been with Joanna’s children. She hoped very
much people would like him, and she hardly could
see why they should fail to find him agreeable. To
herself he was sweeter than any grandchild ; he was
as kind as if he had been a devoted parent. Florimond
had but a small acquaintance with his brother-in-law ;
but after he had been at home forty-eight hours he
found that he bore Arthur Merriman a grudge, and
was ready to think rather ill of him—having a theory
that he ought to have held up Joanna and interposed
to save her mother. Arthur Merriman was a young
and brilliant commission-merchant, who had not
married Joanna Daintry for the sake of Florimond,
and, doing an active business all day in East Boston,
had a perfectly good conscience in leaving his children’s
mother and grandmother to establish their terms of
intercourse.

Florimond, however, did not particularly wonder

74

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

why his brother-in-law had not been round to bid him
welcome. It was for Mrs. Daintry that this anxiety
was reserved ; and what made it worse was her
uncertainty as to whether she should be justified in
mentioning the subject to Joanna. It might wound
Joanna to suggest to her that her husband was
derelict—especially if she did not think so, and she
certainly gave her mother no opening ; and on the
other hand Florimond might have ground for com-
plaint if Arthur should continue not to notice him.
Mrs. Daintry earnestly desired that nothing of this
sort should happen, and took refuge in the hope that
Florimond would have adopted the foreign theory
of visiting, in accordance with which the newcomer was
to present himself first. Meanwhile the young man,
who had looked upon a meeting with his brother-in-
law as a necessity rather than a privilege, was simply
conscious of a reprieve ; and up in Clarendon Street,
as Mrs. Daintry said, it never occurred to Arthur
Merriman to take this social step, nor to his wife to
propose it to him. Mrs. Merriman simply took for
granted that her brother would be round early some
morning to see the children. A day or two later the
couple dined at her mother’s, and that virtually settled
the question. It is true that Mrs. Daintry, in later
days, occasionally recalled the fact that, after all,
Joanna’s husband never had called upon Florimond ;
and she even wondered why Florimond, who some-
times said bitter things, had not made more of it. The
matter came back at moments when, under the pres-
sure of circumstances which, it must be confessed, were
rare, she found herself giving assent to an axiom that
sometimes reached her ears. This axiom, it must be
added, did not justify her in the particular case I have
mentioned, for the full purport of it was that the
queerness of Bostonians was collective, not individual.

There was no doubt, however, that it was Flori-

75

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

mond’s place to call first upon his aunt, and this was
a duty of which she could not hesitate to remind him.
By the time he took his way across the long expanse
of the new land and up the charming hill which con-
stitutes, as it were, the speaking face of Boston, the
temperature either had relaxed, or he had got used,
even in his mother’s hot little house, to his native air.
He breathed the bright cold sunshine with pleasure ;
he raised his eyes to the arching blueness, and thought
he had never seen a dome so magnificently painted.
He turned his head this way and that, as he walked
(now that he had recovered his legs, he foresaw
that he should walk a good deal), and freely indulged
his most valued organ, the organ that had won him
such reputation as he already enjoyed. In the little
artistic circle in which he moved in Paris, Florimond
Daintry was thought to have a great deal of eye. His
power of rendering was questioned, his execution had
been called pretentious and feeble ; but a conviction
had somehow been diffused that he saw things with
extraordinary intensity. Noone could tell better than
he what to paint, and what not to paint, even though
his interpretation were sometimes rather too sketchy.
It will have been guessed that he was an impressionist ;
and it must be admitted that this was the character
in which he proceeded on his visit to Miss Daintry.
He was constantly shutting one eye, to see the
better with the other, making a little telescope by
curving one of his hands together, waving these
members in the air with vague pictorial gestures,
pointing at things which, when people turned to
follow his direction, seemed to mock the vulgar vision
by eluding it. I do not mean that he practised these
devices as he walked along Beacon Street, into which
he had crossed shortly after leaving his mother’s
house ; but now that he had broken the ice he acted
quite in the spirit of the reply he had made to a friend
76

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

in Paris, shortly before his departure, who asked him
why he was going back to America—“ I am going to
see how it looks.” He was of course very conscious
of his eye; and his effort to cultivate it was both
intuitive and deliberate. He spoke of it freely, as he
might have done of a valuable watch or a horse. He
was always trying to get the visual impression ; asking
himself, with regard to such and such an object or a
place, of what its “‘ character’ would consist. There
is no doubt he really saw with great intensity ; and
the reader will probably feel that he was welcome to
this ambiguous privilege. It was not important for
him that things should be beautiful ; what he sought
to discover was their identity—the signs by which he
should know them. He began this inquiry as soon as
he stepped into Newbury Street from his mother’s
door, and he was destined to continue it for the first
few weeks of his stay in Boston. As time went on,
his attention relaxed ; for one couldn’t do more than
see, as he said to his mother and another person ; and
he had seen. Then the novelty wore off—the novelty
which is often so absurdly great in the eyes of the
American who returns to his native land after a few
years spent in the foreign element—an effect to be
accounted for only on the supposition that in the secret
parts of his mind he recognises the aspect of life in
Europe as, through long heredity, the more familiar ;
so that superficially, having no interest to oppose it, it
quickly supplants the domestic type, which, upon his
return, becomes supreme, but with its credit in many
cases appreciably and permanently diminished. Flori-
mond painted a few things while he was in America,
though he had told his mother he had come home to
rest ; but when, several months later, in Paris, he
showed his ‘‘ notes,’ as he called them, to a friend, the
young Frenchman asked him if Massachusetts were
really so much like Andalusia.

77

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

There was certainly nothing Andalusian in the
prospect as Florimond traversed the artificial bosom of
the Back Bay. He had made his way promptly into
Beacon Street, and he greatly admired that vista. The
long straight avenue lay airing its newness in the
frosty day, and all its individual facades, with their
neat, sharp ornaments, seemed to have been scoured,
with a kind of friction, by the hard, salutary light.
Their brilliant browns and drabs, their rosy surfaces of
brick, made a variety of fresh, violent tones, such as
Florimond liked to memorise, and the large clear
windows of their curved fronts faced each other, across
the street, like candid, inevitable eyes. There was
something almost terrible in the windows ; Florimond
had forgotten how vast and clean they were, and how,
in their sculptured frames, the New England air
seemed, like a zealous housewife, to polish and preserve
them. A great many ladies were looking out, and
groups of children, in the drawing-rooms, were flat-
tening their noses against the transparent plate. Here
and there, behind it, the back of a statuette or the
symmetry of a painted vase, erect on a pedestal, pre-
sented itself to the street, and enabled the passer to
construct, more or less, the room within—its frescoed
ceilings, its new silk sofas, its untarnished fixtures.
This continuity of glass constituted a kind of exposure,
within and without, and gave the street the appearance
of an enormous corridor in which the public and the
private were familiar and intermingled. But it was
all very cheerful and commodious, and seemed to
speak of diffused wealth, of intimate family life, of
comfort constantly renewed. All sorts of things in
the region of the temperature had happened during the
few days that Florimond had been in the country.
The cold wave had spent itself, a snowstorm had come
and gone, and the air, after this temporary relaxation,
had renewed its keenness. The snow, which had fallen

78

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

in but moderate abundance, was heaped along the side
of the pavement ; it formed a radiant cornice on the
housetops and crowned the windows with a plain white
cap. It deepened the colour of everything else, made
all surfaces look ruddy, and at a distance sent into
the air a thin, delicate mist—a vaporous blur—which
occasionally softened an edge. The upper part of
Beacon Street seemed to Florimond charming—the
long, wide, sunny slope, the uneven line of the older
houses, the contrasted, differing, bulging fronts, the
painted bricks, the tidy facings, the immaculate doors,
the burnished silver plates, the denuded twigs of the
far extent of the Common, on the other side; and to
crown the eminence and complete the picture, high in
the air, poised in the right place, over everything that
clustered below, the most felicitous object in Boston—
the gilded dome of the State House. It was in the
shadow of this monument, as we know, that Miss
Daintry lived ; and Florimond, who was always lucky,
had the good fortune to find her at home.

V

It may seem that I have assumed on the part of the
reader too great a curiosity about the impressions of
this young man, who was not very remarkable, and
who has not even the recommendation of being the
hero of our perhaps too descriptive tale. The reader
will already have discovered that a hero fails us here ;
but if I go on at all risks to say a few words about
Florimond, he will perhaps understand the better why
this part has not been filled. Miss Daintry’s nephew
was not very original ; it was his own illusion that he
had in a considerable degree the value of rareness.
Even this youthful conceit was not rare, for it was not
of heroic proportions, and was liable to lapses and
discouragements. He was a fair, slim, civil young
man, and you would never have guessed from his
appearance that he was an impressionist. He was
neat and sleek and quite anti-Bohemian, and in spite
of his looking about him as he walked, his figure was
much more in harmony with the Boston landscape
than he supposed. He was a little vain, a little
affected, a little pretentious, a little good-looking, a
little amusing, a little spoiled, and at times a little
tiresome. If he was disagreeable, however, it was also
only a little ; he did not carry anything to a very high.
pitch ; he was accomplished, industrious, successful—
all in the minor degree. He was fond of his mother
and fond of himself; he also liked the people who
. 80

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

liked him. Such people could belong only to the class
of good listeners, for Florimond, with the least en-
couragement (he was very susceptible to that), would
‘chatter by the hour. As he was very observant, and
knew a great many stories, his talk was often enter-
taining, especially to women, many of whom thought
him wonderfully sympathetic. It may be added that
he was still very young and fluid, and neither his
defects nor his virtues had a great consistency. He
was fond of the society of women, and had an idea that
he knew a great deal about that element of humanity.
He believed himself to know everything about art,
and almost everything about life, and he expressed
himself as much as possible in the phrases that are
current in studios. He spoke French very well, and
it had rubbed off on his English.

His aunt listened to him attentively, with her
nippers on her nose. She had been a little restless at
first, and, to relieve herself, had vaguely punched the
sofa-cushion which lay beside her—a gesture that her
friends always recognised ; they knew it to express a
particular emotion. Florimond, whose egotism was
candid and confiding, talked for an hour about himself
—about what he had done, and what he intended to
do, what he had said and what had been said to him ;
about his habits, tastes, achievements, peculiarities,
which were apparently so numerous; about the
decorations of his studio in Paris ; about the character
of the French, the works of Zola, the theory of art
for art, the American type, the “stupidity ’’ of his
mother’s new house—though of course it had some
things that were knowing—the pronunciation of
Joanna’s children, the effect of the commission-
business on Arthur Merriman’s conversation, the effect
of everything on his mother, Mrs. Daintry, and the
effect of Mrs. Daintry on her son Florimond. The
young man had an epithet which he constantly intro-

81 G

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

duced to express disapproval ; when he spoke of the
architecture of his mother’s house, over which she
had taken great pains (she remembered the gabled
fronts of Nuremberg), he said that a certain effect had :
been dreadfully missed, that the character of the
doorway was simply “crass.’”” He expressed, how-
ever, a lively sense of the bright cleanness of American
interiors, ‘“‘ Oh, as for that,” he said, “‘ the place is
kept—it’s kept;’’ and, to give an image of this idea,
he put his gathered fingers to his lips an instant,
seemed to kiss them or blow upon them, and then
opened them into the air. Miss Daintry had never
encountered this gesture before; she had heard it
described by travelled persons; but to see her own
nephew in the very act of it led her to administer
another thump to the sofa-cushion. She finally got this
article under control, and sat more quiet, with her
hands clasped upon it, while her visitor continued to
discourse. In pursuance of his character as an
impressionist, he gave her a great many impres-
sions; but it seemed to her that as he talked, he
simply exposed himself—exposed his egotism, his
little pretensions. Lucretia Daintry, as we know, had
a love of justice, and though her opinions were apt
to be very positive, her charity was great and her
judgements were not harsh ; moreover, there was in
her composition not a drop of acrimony. Neverthe-
less, she was, as the phrase is, rather hard on poor little
Florimond ; and to explain her severity we are bound
to assume that in the past he had in some way offended
her. To-day, at any rate, it seemed to her that he
patronised his maiden-aunt. He scarcely asked
about her health, but took for granted on her part
an unlimited interest in his own sensations. It
came over her afresh that his mother had been absurd
in thinking that the usual resources of Boston would
not have sufficed to maintain him ; and she smiled a
82

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

little grimly at the idea that a special provision should
have been made. This idea presently melted into
another, over which she was free to regale herself only
after her nephew had departed. For the moment
she contented herself with saying to him, when a pause
in his young eloquence gave her a chance—“ You will
have a great many people to go and see. You pay
the penalty of being a Bostonian ; you have several
hundred cousins. One pays for everything.”’

Florimond lifted his eyebrows. “I pay for that
every day of my life. Have I got to go and see them
all?”

“‘ All—every one,” said his aunt, who in reality did
not hold this obligation in the least sacred.

‘“‘ And to say something agreeable to them all? ”’
the young man went on.

“Oh no, that is not necessary,’ Miss Daintry
rejoined, with more exactness. ‘‘ There are one or
two, however, who always appreciate a pretty speech.”
She added in an instant, “ Do you remember Mrs.
Mesh ? ”’

“Mrs. Mesh?” Florimond apparently did not
remember.

“The wife of Donald Mesh; your grandfathers
were first cousins. I don’t mean her grandfather, but
her husband’s. If you don’t remember her, I suppose
he married her after you went away.”

“I remember Donald ; but I never knew he was a
relation. He was single then, I think.”

“ Well, he’s double now,” said Miss Daintry ; “ he’s
triple, I may say, for there are two ladies in the house.”

‘If you mean he’s a polygamist—are there Mor-
mons even here?” Florimond, leaning back in his
chair, with his elbow on the arm, and twisting with
his gloved fingers the point of a small fair moustache,
did not appear to have been arrested by this account
of Mr. Mesh’s household ; for he almost immediately

83

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

asked, in a large, detached way—“ Are there any
nice women here ? ”’

“It depends on what you mean by nice women ;
there are some very sharp ones.”

‘“‘ Oh, I don’t like sharp ones,”’ Florimond remarked,
in a tone which made his aunt long to throw her
sofa-cushion at his head. ‘‘ Are there any pretty
ones ? ”’

She looked at him a moment, hesitating. ‘ Rachel
Torrance is pretty, in a strange, unusual way— black
hair and blue eyes, a serpentine figure, old coins in
her tresses ; that sort of thing.”

‘“‘T have seen a good deal of that sort of thing,”
said Florimond, abstractedly.

“That I know nothing about. I mention Pauline
Mesh’s as one of the houses that you ought to go to,
and where I know you are expected.”

‘“‘T remember now that my mother has said some-
thing about that. But who is the woman with coins
in her hair?—what has she to do with Pauline
Mesh ? ”

“* Rachel is staying with her; she came from New
York a week ago, and I believe she means to spend
the winter. She isn’t a woman, she’s a girl.”

“* My mother didn’t speak of her,” said Florimond ;
“ but I don’t think she would recommend me a girl
with a serpentine figure.”’

“Very likely not,” Miss Daintry answered, dryly.
“Rachel Torrance is a far-away cousin of Donald
Mesh, and consequently of mine and of yours. She’s
an artist, like yourself; she paints flowers on little
panels and plaques.”’

“‘ Like myself ?—I never painted a plaque in my
life | ’’ exclaimed Florimond, staring.

“Well, she’s a model also; you can paint her if
you like ; she has often been painted, I believe.”

w&. Florimond had begun to caress the other tip of his
84

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

moustache. “I don’t care for women who have been
painted before. I like to find them out. Besides, I
want to rest this winter.”

His aunt was disappointed ; she wished to put him
into relation with Rachel Torrance, and his indiffer-
ence was an obstacle. The meeting was sure to take
place sooner or later, but she would have him glad to
precipitate it, and, above all, to quicken her nephew's
susceptibilities. ‘‘ Take care you are not found out
yourself !’’ she exclaimed, tossing away her sofa-
cushion and getting up.

Florimond did not see what she meant, and he
accordingly bore her no rancour ; but when, before he
took his leave, he said to her, rather irrelevantly, that
if he should find himself in the mood during his stay
in Boston, he should like to do her portrait—she had
such a delightful face—she almost thought the speech
a deliberate impertinence. ‘‘ Do you mean that you
have discovered me—that no one has suspected it
before ? ’’ she inquired with a laugh, and a little
flush in the countenance that he was so good as to
appreciate.

Florimond replied, with perfect coolness and good-
nature, that he didn’t know about this, but that he
was sure no one had seen her in just the way he saw
her ; and he waved his hand in the air with strange
circular motions, as if to evoke before him the image
of a canvas, with a figure just rubbed in. He repeated
this gesture, or something very like it, by way of
farewell, when he quitted his aunt, and she thought
him insufferably patronising.

This is why she wished him, without loss of time,
to make the acquaintance of Rachel Torrance, whose
treatment of his pretensions she thought would be
salutary. It may now be communicated to the
reader—after a delay proportionate to the momentous-
hess of the fact—that this had been the idea which

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

suddenly flowered in her brain, as she sat face to
face with her irritating young visitor. It had vaguely
shaped itself after her meeting with that strange girl
from Brooklyn, whom Mrs. Mesh, all gratitude—for
she liked strangeness— promptly brought to see her ;
and her present impression of her nephew rapidly
completed it. She had not expected to take an
interest in Rachel Torrance, and could not see why,
through a freak of Susan’s, she should have been called
upon to think so much about her; but, to her
surprise, she perceived that Mrs. Daintry’s proposed
victim was not the usual forward girl. She perceived
at the same time that it had been ridiculous to think
of Rachel as a victim—to suppose that she was in
danger of vainly fixing her affections upon Florimond.
She was much more likely to triumph than to suffer ;
and if her visit to Boston were to produce bitter fruits,
it would not be she who should taste them. She had
a striking, oriental head, a beautiful smile, a manner of
dressing which carried out her exotic type, and a great
deal of experience and wit. She evidently knew the
world, as one knows it when one has to live by its
help. If she had an aim in life, she would draw her
bow well above the tender breast of Florimond
Daintry. With all this, she certainly was an honest,
obliging girl, and had a sense of humour which was a
fortunate obstacle to her falling into a pose. Her
coins and amulets and seamless garments were, for
her, a part of the general joke of one’s looking like a
Circassian or a Smyrniote—an accident for which
nature was responsible ; and it may be said of her
that she took herself much less seriously than other
people took her. This was a defect for which Lucretia
Daintry had a great kindness; especially as she
quickly saw that Rachel was not of an insipid paste,
as even triumphant coquettes sometimes are. In
spite of her poverty and the opportunitiesther beauty
86

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

must have brought her, she had not yet seen fit to
marry—which was a proof that she was clever as well
as disinterested. It looks dreadfully cold-blooded as
I write it here, but the notion that this capable
creature might administer poetic justice to Florimond
gave a measurable satisfaction to Miss Daintry. He
was in distinct need of a snub, for down in Newbury
Street his mother was perpetually swinging the censer ;
and no young nature could stand that sort of thing—
least of all such a nature as Florimond’s. She said to
herself that such a ‘“ putting in his place” as he
might receive from Rachel Torrance would probably be
a permanent correction. She wished his good, as she
wished the good of every one ; and that desire was at
the bottom of her vision. She knew perfectly what
she should like: she should like him to fall in love
with Rachel, as he probably would, and to have no
doubt of her feeling immensely honoured. She should
like Rachel to encourage him just enough—just so
far as she might, without being false. A little would
do, for Florimond would always take his success for
granted. To this point did the study of her nephew’s
moral regeneration bring the excellent woman who a
few days before had accused his mother of a lack of
morality. His mother was thinking only of his
pleasure ; ske was thinking of his immortal spirit.
She should like Rachel to tell him at the end that he
was a presumptuous little boy, and that since it was
his business to render ‘‘ impressions,”” he might see
what he could do with that of having been jilted.
This extraordinary flight of fancy on Miss Daintry’s
part was caused in some degree by the high spirits
which sprang from her conviction, after she met the
young lady, that Mrs. Mesh’s companion was not in
danger ; for even when she wrote to her sister-in-law
in the manner the reader knows, her conscience was
not wholly at rest. There was still a risk, and she

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

knew not why she should take risks for Florimond.
Now, however, she was prepared to be perfectly happy
when she should hear that the young man was con-
stantly in Arlington Street ; and at the end of a little
month she enjoyed this felicity.

88

VI

Mrs. MEsH sat on one side of the fire, and Florimond
on the other; he had by this time acquired the
privilege of a customary seat. He had taken a general
view of Boston. It was like a first introduction, for
before his going to live in Paris he had been too young
to judge ; and the result of this survey was the con-
viction that there was nothing better than Mrs. Mesh’s
drawing-room. She was one of the few persons whom
one was certain to find at home after five o’clock ; and
the place itself was agreeable to Florimond, ‘who was
very fastidious about furniture and decorations. He
was willing to concede that Mrs. Mesh (the relation-
ship had not yet seemed close enough to justify him
in calling her Pauline) knew a great deal about such
matters ; though it was clear that she was indebted
for some of her illumination to Rachel Torrance, who
had induced her to make several changes. These two
ladies, between them, represented a great fund of taste;
with a difference that was a result of Rachel’s know-
ing clearly beforehand what she liked (Florimond
called her, at least, by her baptismal name), and Mrs.
Mesh’s only knowing it after a succession of experi-
ments, of transposings and drapings, all more or less
ingenious and expensive. If Florimond liked Mrs.
Mesh’s drawing-room better than any other corner of
Boston, he also had his preference in regard to its
phases and hours. It was most charming in the winter

89

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

twilight, by the glow of the fire, before the lamps had
been brought in. The ruddy flicker played over many
objects, making them look more mysterious than
Florimond had supposed anything could look in
Boston, and, among others, upon Rachel Torrance,
who, when she moved about the room in a desultory
way (never so much enfoncée, as Florimond said, in
a chair as Mrs. Mesh was), certainly attracted and
detained the eye. The young man from his corner (he
was almost as much enfoncé as Mrs. Mesh) used to
watch her ; and he could easily see what his aunt had
meant by saying she had a serpentine figure. She
was slim and flexible, she took attitudes which would
have been awkward in other women, but which her
charming pliancy made natural. She reminded him
of a celebrated actress in Paris who was the ideal of
tortuous thinness. Miss Torrance used often to seat
herself for a short time at the piano ; and though she
never had been taught this art (she played only by
ear), her musical feeling was such that she charmed the
twilight hour. Mrs. Mesh sat on one side of the fire,
as I have said, and Florimond on the other; the two
might have been found in this relation—listening,
face to face—almost any day in the week. Mrs.
Mesh raved about her new friend, as they said in
Boston—I mean about Rachel Torrance, not about
Florimond Daintry. She had at last got hold of a
mind that understood her own (Mrs. Mesh’s mind
contained depths of mystery), and she sacrificed
herself, generally, to throw her companion into
relief. Her sacrifice was rewarded, for the girl was
universally liked and admired ; she was a new type
altogether ; she was the lioness of the winter. Flori-
mond had an opportunity to see his native town
in one of its fits of enthusiasm. He had heard of
the infatuations of Boston, literary and social ; of its
capacity for giving itself with intensity to a temporary
: 90

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

topic ; and he was now conscious, on all sides, of the
breath of New England discussion. Some one had
said to him—or had said to some one, who repeated
it—that there was no place like Boston for taking
up with such seriousness a second-rate spinster from
Brooklyn. But Florimond himself made no criticism ;
for, as we know, he speedily fell under the charm of
Rachel Torrance’s personality. He was perpetually
talking with Mrs. Mesh about it; and when Mrs.
Mesh herself descanted on the subject, he listened with
the utmost attention. At first, on his return, he rather
feared the want of topics ; he foresaw that he should
miss the talk of the studios, of the theatres, of the
boulevard, of a little circle of ‘‘ naturalists ”’ (in litera-
ture and art) to which he belonged, without sharing
all its views. But he presently perceived that Boston,
too, had its actualities, and that it even had this in
common with Paris—that it gave its attention most
willingly to a female celebrity. If he had had any
hope of being himself the lion of the winter, it had
been dissipated by the spectacle of his cousin’s success.
He saw that while she was there he could only be
a subject of secondary reference. He bore her no
grudge for this. I must hasten to declare that from
the pettiness of this particular jealousy poor Flori-
mond was quite exempt. Moreover, he was swept
along by the general chorus; and he perceived that
when one changes one’s sky, one inevitably changes,
more or less, one’s standard. Rachel Torrance was
neither an actress, nor a singer, nor a beauty, nor one
of the ladies who were chronicled in the Figaro, nor the
author of a successful book, nor a person of the great
world ; she had neither a future, nor a past, nor a posi-
tion, nor even a husband, to make her identity more
solid ; she was a simple American girl, of the class
that lived in penstons (a class of which Florimond had
ever entertained a theoretic horror); and yet she had

gI

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

profited to the degree of which our young man was
witness, by those treasures of sympathy constantly in
reserve in the American public (as has already been
intimated) for the youthful-feminine. If Florimond
was struck with all this, it may be imagined whether
or not his mother thought she had been clever when
it occurred to her (before any one else) that Rachel
would be a resource for the term of hibernation. She
had forgotten all her scruples and hesitations; she
only knew she had seen very far. She was proud of
her prescience, she was even amused with it ; and for
the moment she held her head rather high. No one
knew of it but Lucretia—for she had never confided
it to Joanna, of whom she would have been more afraid
in such a connexion even than of her sister-in-law ;
but Mr, and Mrs, Merriman perceived an unusual
lightness in her step, a fitful sparkle in her eye. It
was of course easy for them to make up their mind
that she was exhilarated to this degree by the presence
of her son ; especially as he seemed to be getting on
beautifully in Boston.

“She stays out longer every day ; she is scarcely
ever home to tea,’’ Mrs. Mesh remarked, looking up
at the clock on the chimney-piece.

Florimond could not fail to know to whom she
alluded, for it has been intimated that between these
two there was much conversation about Rachel
Torrance. “It’s funny, the way the girls run about
alone here,’’ he said, in the amused, contemplative
tone in which he frequently expressed himself on the
subject of American life. ‘‘ Rachel stays out after
dark, and no one thinks any the worse of her.”

“‘ Oh, well, she’s old enough,’ Mrs. Mesh rejoined,
with a little sigh, which seemed to suggest that
Rachel’s age was really affecting. Her eyes had been
opened by Florimond to many of the peculiarities of
the society that surrounded her; and though she had

92

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

spent only as many months in Europe as her visitor
had spent years, she now sometimes spoke as if: she
thought the manners of Boston more odd even than
he could pretend to do. She was very quick at
picking up an idea, and there was nothing she desired
more than to have the last on every subject. This
winter, from her two new friends, Florimond and
Rachel, she had extracted a great many that were
new to her; the only trouble was that, coming from
different sources, they sometimes contradicted each
other. Many of them, however, were very vivifying ;
they added a new zest to that prospect of life which
had always, in winter, the denuded bushes, the solid
pond, the plank-covered walks, the exaggerated bridge,
the patriotic statues, the dry, hard texture of the
Public Garden for its foreground, and for its middle
distance the pale, frozen twigs, stiff in the windy sky
that whistled over the Common, the domestic dome of
the State House, familiar in the untinted air, and the
competitive spires of a liberal faith. Mrs. Mesh had
an active imagination, and plenty of time on her
hands. Her two children were young, and they slept
a good deal; she had explained to Florimond, who
observed that she was a great deal less in the nursery
than his sister, that she pretended only to give her
attention to their waking hours. “I have people for
the rest of the time,” she said; and the rest of the
time was considerable ; so that there were very few
obstacles to her cultivation of ideas. There was one
in her mind now, and I may as well impart it to the
reader without delay. She was not quite so delighted
with Rachel Torrance as she had been a month ago ;
it seemed to her that the young lady took up—socially
speaking—too much room in the house; and she
wondered how long she intended to remain, and
whether it would be possible, without a direct request,
to induce her to take her way back to Brooklyn.

93

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

This last was the conception with which she was at
present engaged ; she was at moments much pressed
by it, and she had thoughts of taking Florimond
Daintry into her confidence. This, however, she
determined not to do, lest he should regard it as a
sign that she was jealous of her companion. I know
not whether she was, but this I know—that Mrs.
Mesh was a woman of a high ideal and would not for
the world have appeared so. If she was jealous, this
would imply that she thought Florimond was in love
with Rachel; and she could only object to that on
the ground of being in love with him herself. She
was not in love with him, and had no intention of
being ; of this the reader, possibly alarmed, may
definitely rest assured. Moreover, she did not think
him in love with Rachel; as to her reason for this
reserve, I need not, perhaps, be absolutely outspoken.
She was not jealous, she would have said ; she was
only oppressed—she was a little over-ridden. Rachel
pervaded her house, pervaded her life, pervaded
Boston ; every one thought it necessary to talk to her
about Rachel, to rave about her in the Boston manner,
which seemed to Mrs. Mesh, in spite of the Puritan
tradition, very much more unbridled than that of
Baltimore. They thought it would give her pleasure ;
but by this time she knew everything about Rachel.
The girl had proved rather more of a figure than she
expected ; and though she could not be called pre-
tentious, she had the air, in staying with Pauline Mesh,
of conferring rather more of a favour than she received.
This was absurd for a person who was, after all,
though not in her first youth, only a girl, and who, as
Mrs. Mesh was sure from her biography—for Rachel
had related every item—had never before had such
unrestricted access to the fleshpots. The fleshpots
were full, under Donald Mesh’s roof, and his wife
could easily believe that the poor girl would not be in

94

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

a hurry to return to her boarding-house in Brooklyn.
For that matter there were lots of people in Boston
who would be delighted that she should come to them.
It was doubtless an inconsistency on Mrs. Mesh’s part
that if she was overdone with the praises of Rachel
Torrance which fell from every lip, she should not
herself have forborne to broach the topic. But I
have sufficiently intimated that it had a perverse
fascination for her; it is true she did not speak of
Rachel only to praise her. Florimond, in truth, was
a little weary of the young lady’s name; he had
plenty of topics of his own, and he had his own
opinion about Rachel Torrance. He did not take up
Mrs. Mesh’s remark as to her being old enough.

“You must wait till she comes in. Please ring
for tea,’’ said Mrs. Mesh, after a pause. She had
noticed that Florimond was comparing his watch with
her clock ; it occurred to her that he might be going.

“Qh, I always wait, you know; I like to see her
when she has been anywhere. She tells one all about
it, and describes everything so well.”

Mrs. Mesh looked at him a moment. “She sees
a great deal more in things than I am usually able to
discover. She sees the most extraordinary things in
Boston.”’

“Well, so do I,”’ said Florimond, placidly.

“Well, I don’t, I must say!” She asked him to
ring again ; and then, with a slight irritation, accused
him of not ringing hard enough ; but before he could
repeat the operation she left her chair and went
herself to the bell. After this she stood before the
fire a moment, gazing into it; then suggested to
Florimond that he should put on a log.

“Ts it necessary—when your servant is coming
in a moment ?” the young man asked, unexpectedly,
without moving. In an instant, however, he rose; and
then he explained that this was only his little joke.

95

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

“Servants are too stupid,’ said Mrs. Mesh. ‘“‘ But
I spoil you. What would your mother say?” She
watched him while he placed the log. She was
plump, and she was not tall; but she was a very
pretty woman. She had round brown eyes, which
looked as if she had been crying a little—she had
nothing in life to cry about; and dark, wavy hair,
which here and there, in short, crisp tendrils, escaped
artfully from the form in which it was dressed. When
she smiled, she showed very pretty teeth; and the
combination of her touching eyes and her parted lips
was at such moments almost bewitching. She was
accustomed to express herself in humorous super-
latives, in pictorial circumlocutions ; and had acquired
in Boston the rudiments of a social dialect which, to
be heard in perfection, should be heard on the lips of
a native. Mrs. Mesh had picked it up; but it must
be confessed that she used it without originality. It
was an accident that on this occasion she had not
expressed her wish for her tea by saying that she
should like a pint or two of that Chinese fluid.

““My mother believes I can’t be spoiled,” said
Florimond, giving a little push with his toe to the
stick that he had placed in the embers ; after which
he sank back into his chair, while Mrs. Mesh resumed
possession of her own. ‘‘ I am ever fresh—ever pure.”

“You are ever conceited. I don’t see what you
find so extraordinary in Boston,” Mrs. Mesh added,
reverting to his remark of a moment before.

“Oh, everything! the ways of the people, their
ideas, their peculiar cachet. The very expression of
their faces amuses me.”

‘““ Most of them have no expression at all.”

“Oh, you are used to it,”’ Florimond said. “‘ You
have become one of themselves ; you have ceased to
notice.”

“I am more of a stranger than you; I was born

96

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

beneath other skies. Is it possible that you don’t
know yet that I am a native of Baltimore? ‘ Mary-
land, my Maryland !’ ”’

‘‘ Have they got so much expression in Maryland ?
No, I thank you ; no tea. Is it possible,” Florimond
went on, with the familiarity of pretended irritation,
“is it possible that you haven’t noticed yet that I never
take it? Bowtsson fade, éceuranie, as Balzac calls it.”

“Ah, well, if you don’t take it on account of
Balzac !’’ said Mrs. Mesh. “I never saw a man who
had such fantastic reasons. Where, by the way, is
the volume of that depraved old author you promised
to bring me? ”

“When do you think he flourished? You call
everything old, in this country, that isn’t in the
morning paper. I haven’t brought you the volume,
because I don’t want to bring you presents,” Florimond
said ; “‘ I want you to love me for myself, as they say
in Paris.”

“Don’t quote what they say in Paris! Don’t
profane this innocent bower with those fearful words! ”’
Mrs. Mesh rejoined, with a jocose intention. ‘‘ Dear
lady, your son is not everything we could wish!”
she added in the same mock-dramatic tone, as the
curtain of the door was lifted, and Mrs. Daintry
rather timidly advanced. Mrs. Daintry had come
to satisfy a curiosity, after all quite legitimate ; she
could no longer resist the impulse to ascertain for
herself, so far as she might, how Rachel Torrance
and Florimond were getting on. She had had no
definite expectation of finding Florimond at Mrs.
Mesh’s; but she supposed that at this hour of the
afternoon—it was already dark, and the ice, in
many parts of Beacon Street, had a polish which
gleamed through the dusk—she should find Rachel.
‘“ Your son has lived too long in far-off lands ; he has
dwelt among outworn things,” Mrs. Mesh went on, as

97 H

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

she conducted her visitor to a chair. “ Dear lady, you
are not as Balzac was ; do you start at the mention of
his name ?—therefore you will have some tea in a
little painted cup.”

Mrs. Daintry was not bewildered, though it may
occur to the reader that she might have been; she
was only a little disappointed. She had hoped she
might have occasion to talk about Florimond ; but the
young man’s presence was a denial of this privilege.
‘‘ I am afraid Rachel is not at home,”’ she remarked.
“T am afraid she will think I have not been very
attentive.”

“‘ She will be in in a moment ; we are waiting for
her,’’ Florimond said.. ‘‘ It’s impossible she should
think any harm of you. I have told her too much
good.”

“ Ah, Mrs. Daintry, don’t build too much on what
he has told her! MHe’s a false and faithless man ! ”
Pauline Mesh interposed ; while the good lady from
Newbury Street, smiling at this adjuration, but looking
a little grave, turned from one of her companions to
the other. Florimond had relapsed into his chair by
the fireplace ; he sat contemplating the embers, and
fingering the tip of his moustache. Mrs. Daintry
imbibed her tea, and told how often she had slipped
coming down the hill. These expedients helped her
to wear a quiet face ; but in reality she was nervous,
and she felt rather foolish. It came over her that she
was rather dishonest ; she had presented herself at
Mrs. Mesh’s in the capacity of a spy. The reader
already knows she was subject to sudden revulsions
of feeling. There is an adage about repenting at
leisure ; but Mrs. Daintry always repented in a hurry.
There was something in the air— something im-
palpable, magnetic—that told her she had better not
have come; and even while she conversed with Mrs.
Mesh she wondered what this mystic element could

98

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

be. Of course she had been greatly preoccupied, these
last weeks ; for it had seemed to her that her plan
with regard to Rachel Torrance was succeeding only
too well. Florimond had frankly accepted her in the
spirit in which she had been offered, and it was very
plain that she was helping him to pass his winter.
He was constantly at the house—Mrs. Daintry could
not tell exactly how often; but she knew very well
that in Boston, if one saw anything of a person, one
saw a good deal. At first he used to speak of it ; for
two or three weeks he had talked a good deal about
Rachel Torrance. More lately, his allusions had
become few ; yet to the best of Mrs. Daintry’s belief
his step was often in Arlington Street. This aroused
her suspicions, and at times it troubled her conscience ;
there were moments when she wondered whether, in
arranging a genial winter for Florimond, she had also
prepared a season of torment for herself. Was he in
love with the girl, or had he already discovered that
the girl was in love with him? The delicacy of either
situation would account for his silence. Mrs. Daintry
said to herself that it would be a grim joke if she
should prove to have plotted only too well. It was
her sister-in-law’s warning in especial that haunted her
imagination, and she scarcely knew, at times, whether
more to hope that Florimond might have been smitten,
or to pray that Rachel might remain indifferent. It
was impossible for Mrs. Daintry to shake off the sense
of responsibility ; she could not shut her eyes to the
fact that she had been the prime mover. It was all
very well to say that the situation, as it stood, was
of Lucretia’s making; the thing never would have
come into Lucretia’s head if she had not laid it
before her. Unfortunately, with the quiet life she
led, she had very little chance to observe; she went
out so little, that she was reduced to guessing what
the manner of the two young persons might be to

99

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

each other when they met in society, and she should
have thought herself wanting in delicacy if she had
sought to be intimate with Rachel Torrance. Now
that her plan was in operation, she could make no
attempt to foster it, to acknowledge it in the face
of Heaven. Fortunately, Rachel had so many
attentions, that there was no fear of her missing
those of Newbury Street. She had dined there once,
in the first days of her sojourn, without Pauline and
Donald, who had declined, and with Joanna and
Joanna’s husband for all ‘‘ company.”’ Mrs. Daintry
had noticed nothing particular then, save that Arthur
Merriman talked rather more than usual—though he
was always a free talker—and had bantered Rachel
rather more familiarly than was perhaps necessary
(considering that he, after all, was not her cousin)
on her ignorance of Boston, and her thinking that
Pauline Mesh could tell her anything about it. On
this occasion Florimond talked very little ; of course
he could not say much when Arthur was in such
extraordinary spirits. She knew by this time all
that Florimond thought of his brother-in-law, and
she herself had to confess that she liked Arthur
better in his jaded hours, even though then he was a
little cynical. Mrs. Daintry had been perhaps a little
disappointed in Rachel, whom she saw for the first
time in several years. The girl was less peculiar than
she remembered her being, savoured less of the old
studio, the musical parties, the creditors waiting at the
door. However, people in Boston found her unusual,
and Mrs. Daintry reflected, with a twinge at her de-
pravity, that perhaps she had expected something too
dishevelled. At any rate, several weeks had elapsed
since then, and there had been plenty of time for Miss
Torrance to attach herself to Florimond. It was less
than ever Mrs. Daintry’s wish that he should (even in
this case) ask her to be his wife. It seemed to her
100

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

less than ever the way her son should marry—because
he had got entangled with a girl in consequence of
his mother’s rashness. It occurred to her, of course,
that she might warn the young man; but when it
came to the point she could not bring herself to speak.
She had never discussed the question of love with him,
and she didn’t know what ideas he might have brought
with him from Paris. It was too delicate; it might
put notions into his head. He might say something
strange and French, which she shouldn’t like; and
then perhaps she should feel bound to warn Rachel
herself—a complication from which she absolutely
shrank. It was part of her embarrassment now, as
she sat in Mrs. Mesh’s drawing-room, that she should
probably spoil Florimond’s entertainment for this
afternoon, and that such a crossing of his inclination
would make him the more dangerous. He had told
her that he was waiting for Rachel to come in; and
at the same time, in view of the lateness of the hour
and her being on foot, when she herself should take
her leave he would be bound in decency to accompany
her. As for remaining after Rachel should come in,
that was an indiscretion which scarcely seemed to her
possible. Mrs. Daintry was an American mother, and
she knew what the elder generation owes to the
younger. If Florimond had come there to call on a
young lady, he didn’t, as they used to say, want any
mothers round. She glanced covertly at her son, to
try and find some comfort in his countenance ; for her
perplexity was heavy. But she was struck only with
his looking very handsome, as he lounged there in
the firelight, and with his being very much at home.
This did not lighten her byrden, and she expressed all
the weight of it—in the midst of Mrs. Mesh’s flights
of comparison—in an irrelevant little sigh. At such
a time her only comfort could be the thought that at
ali events she had not betrayed herself to Lucretia.

Tot

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

She had scarcely exchanged a word with Lucretia about
Rachel since that young lady’s arrival; and she had
observed in silence that Miss Daintry now had a guest
in the person of a young woman who had lately opened
a kindergarten. This reticence might surely pass for
natural.

Rachel came in before long, but even then Mrs.
Daintry ventured to stay a little. The visitor from
Brooklyn embraced Mrs. Mesh, who told her that,
prodigal as she was, there was no fatted calf for
her return ; she must content herself with cold tea.
Nothing could be more charming than her manner,
which was full of native archness ; and it seemed to
Mrs. Daintry that she directed her pleasantries at
Florimond with a grace that was intended to be
irresistible. The relation between them was a relation
of ‘‘ chaff,’ and consisted, on one side and the other,
in alternations of attack and defence. Mrs. Daintry
reflected that she should not wish her son to have a
wife who should be perpetually turning him into a joke ;
for it seemed to her, perhaps, that Rachel Torrance
put in her thrusts rather faster than Florimond could
parry them. She was evidently rather wanting in
the faculty of reverence, and Florimond panted a
little. They presently went into an adjoining room,
where the lamplight was brighter; Rachel wished
to show the young man an old painted fan, which
she had brought back from the repairer’s. They
remained there ten minutes. Mrs. Daintry, as she sat
with Mrs. Mesh, heard their voices much intermingled.
She wished very much to confide herself a little to
Pauline—to ask her whether she thought Rachel
was in love with Florimond. But she had a fore-
boding that this would not be safe; Pauline was
capable of repeating her question to the others, of
calling out to Rachel to come back and answer it.
She contented herself, therefore, with asking her

102

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

hostess about the little Meshes, and regaling her
with anecdotes of Joanna’s progeny.

‘Don’t you ever have your little ones with you at
this hour? ’’ she inquired. ‘“‘ You know this is what
Longfellow calls the children’s hour.”’

Mrs. Mesh hesitated a moment. ‘ Well, you know,
one can’t have everything at once. I have my social
duties now ; [have my guests. I have Miss Torrance
—you see she is not a person one can overlook.”’

‘I suppose not,” said poor Mrs. Daintry, remem-
bering how little she herself had overlooked her.

‘Have you done brandishing that superannuated
relic ?’’ Mrs. Mesh asked of Rachel and Florimond,
as they returned to the fireside. ‘‘ I should as soon
think of fanning myself with the fire-shovel ! ”’

““He has broken my heart,’’ Rachel said. ‘ He
tells me it is not a Watteau.”’

“Do you believe everything he tells you, my dear ?
His word is the word of the betrayer.”’

“ Well, I know Watteau didn’t paint fans,’’ Flori-
mond remarked, ‘‘ any more than Michael Angelo.”

“IT suppose you think he painted ceilings,’’ said
Rachel Torrance. “I have painted a great many
myself.”

“A great many ceilings? I should like to see
that!’ Florimond exclaimed.

Rachel Torrance, with her usual promptness,
adopted this fantasy. ‘‘ Yes, I have decorated half
the churches in Brooklyn; you know how many
there are.”

“If you mean fans, I wish men carried them,”’ the
young man went on; “I should like to have one de
votre facon.”

‘You're cool enough as you are ; I should be sorry
to give you anything that would make you cooler | ”’

This retort, which may not strike the reader by its
Originality, was pregnant enough for Mrs. Daintry ; it

103

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

seemed to her to denote that the situation was critical ;
and she proposed to retire. Florimond walked home
with her ; but it was only as they reached their door
that she ventured to say to him what had been on
her tongue’s end since they left Arlington Street.

“ Florimond, I want to ask you something. I
think it is important, and you mustn't be surprised.
Are you in love with Rachel Torrance ? ”’

Florimond stared, in the light of the street-lamp.
The collar of his overcoat was turned up ; he stamped
a little as he stood still; the breath of the February
evening pervaded the empty vistas of the “‘ new land.”’
“In love with Rachel Torrance? Jamats de la vie!
What put that into your head ? ”

“Seeing you with her, that way, this evening.
You know you are very attentive.”’

“‘ How do you mean, attentive ? ”

“You go there very often. Isn’t it almost every
day?”

Florimond hesitated, and, in spite of the frigid
dusk, his mother could see that there was irritation
in his eye. ‘“‘ Where else can I go, in this precious
place? It’s the pleasantest house here.”

“Yes, I suppose it’s very pleasant,’’ Mrs. Daintry
murmured. ‘‘ But I would rather have you return
to Paris than go there too often,’ she added, with
sudden energy.

“* How do you mean, too often? Qu’est-ce gut vous
prend, ma mére ?’’ said Florimond.

“Is Rachel—Rachel in love with you? ’’ she in-
quired solemnly. She felt that this question, though
her heart beat as she uttered it, should not be
mitigated by a circumlocution.

“Good heavens ! mother, fancy talking about love
in this temperature !’”’ Florimond exclaimed. “ Let
one at least get into the house.”

Mrs. Daintry followed him reluctantly ; for she

104

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

always had a feeling that if anything disagreeable
were to be done one should not make it less drastic
by selecting agreeable conditions. In the drawing-
room, before the fire, she returned to her inquiry.
“‘ My son, you have not answered me about Rachel.”’

“Is she in love with me? Why, very possibly ! ”’

“ Are you serious, Florimond ? ”’

“Why shouldn’t I be? I have seen the way
women go off.”

Mrs. Daintry was silent a moment. ‘“ Florimond,
Is it true ? ”’ she said presently.

“Is what true? I don’t see where you want to
come out.”’

“Is it true that that girl has fixed her affec-
tions——-”’ and Mrs. Daintry’s voice dropped.

“Upon me, ma mére? I don’t say it’s true, but
I say it’s possible. You ask me, and I can only
answer you. I am not swaggering, I am simply
giving you decent satisfaction. You wouldn’t have
me think it impossible that a woman should fall in
love with me? You know what women are, and
how there is nothing, in that way, too queer for
them to do.”

Mrs. Daintry, in spite of the knowledge of her sex
that she might be supposed to possess, was not pre-
pared to rank herself on the side of this axiom. “I
wished to warn you,” she simply said ; ‘‘ do be very
careful.”

“Yes, I'll be careful; but I can’t give up the
house.”

“There are other houses, Florimond.”

“ Yes, but there is a special charm there.”

‘“‘T would rather you should return to Paris than
do any harm.”

“Oh, I shan’t do any harm; don’t worry, ma
mére,’’ said Florimond.

It was a relief to Mrs. Daintry to have spoken,

105

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

and she endeavoured not to worry. It was doubtless
this effort that, for the rest of the winter, gave her
a somewhat rigid, anxious look. People who met
her in Beacon Street missed something from her face.
It was her usual confidence in the clearness of human
duty ; and some of her friends explained the change
by saying that she was disappointed about Florimond
~——she was afraid he was not particularly liked.

106

VII

By the first of March this young man had received
a good many optical impressions, and had noted in
water -colours several characteristic winter effects.
He had perambulated Boston in every direction, he
had even extended his researches to the suburbs ; and
if his eye had been curious, his eye was now almost
satisfied. He perceived that even amid the simple
civilisation of New England there was material for the
naturalist ; and in Washington Street, of a winter’s
afternoon, it came home to him that it was a fortunate
thing the impressionist was not exclusively pre-
occupied with the beautiful. He became familiar with
the slushy streets, crowded with thronging pedestrians
and obstructed horse-cars, bordered with strange,
promiscuous shops, which seemed at once violent and
indifferent, overhung with snowbanks from the house
tops ; the avalanche that detached itself at intervals
fell with an enormous thud amid the dense processions
of women, made for a moment a clear space, splashed
with whiter snow, on the pavement, and contributed
to the gaiety of the Puritan capital. Supreme in the
thoroughfare was the rigid groove of the railway, where
oblong receptacles, of fabulous capacity, governed by
familiar citizens, jolted and jingled eternally, close on
each other’s rear, absorbing and emitting innumerable
Specimens of a single type. The road on either side,
buried in mounds of pulverised, mud-coloured ice, was
107

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

ploughed across by labouring vehicles, and traversed
periodically by the sisterhood of ‘shoppers,’ laden
with satchels and parcels, and protected by a round-
backed policeman. Florimond looked at the shops,
saw the women disgorged, surging, ebbing, dodged the
avalanches, squeezed in and out of the horse-cars,
made himself, on their little platforms, where flatness
was enforced, as perp@ndicular as possible. The
horses steamed in the sunny air, the conductor punched
the tickets and poked the passengers, some of whom
were under and some above, and all alike stabled in
trampled straw. They were precipitated, collectively,
by stoppages and starts; the tight, silent interior
stuffed itself more and more, and the whole machine
heaved and reeled in its interrupted course. Flori-
mond had forgotten the look of many things, the
details of American publicity ; in some cases, indeed,
he only pretended to himself that he had forgotten
them, because it helped to entertain him. The houses
—a bristling, jagged line of talls and shorts, a parti-
coloured surface, expressively commercial — were
spotted with staring signs, with labels and pictures,
with advertisements familiar, colloquial, vulgar ; the
air was traversed with the tangle of the telegraph, with
festoons of bunting, with banners not of war, with
inexplicable loops and ropes ; the shops, many of them
enormous, had heterogeneous fronts, with queer juxta-
positions in the articles that peopled them, an in-
completeness of array, the stamp of the latest modern
ugliness. They had pendant stuffs in the doorways,
and flapping tickets outside. Every fifty yards there
was a ‘‘candy store’’; in the intervals was the painted
panel of a chiropodist, representing him in his pro-
fessional attitude. Behind the plates of glass, in the
hot interiors, behind the counters, were pale, familiar,
delicate, tired faces of women, with polished hair and
glazed complexions. Florimond knew their voices; he
108

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

knew how women would speak when their hair was
“ treated,’’ as they said in the studios, like that. But
the women that passed through the streets were the
main spectacle. Florimond had forgotten their extra-
ordinary numerosity, and the impression that they
produced of a deluge of petticoats. He could see that
they were perfectly at home on the road ; they had an
air of possession, of perpetual equipment, a look, in the
eyes, of always meeting the gaze of crowds, always
seeing people pass, noting things in shop windows, and
being on the watch at crossings; many of them
evidently passed most of their time in these conditions,
and Florimond wondered what sort of tntérieurs they
could have. He felt at moments that he was in a city
of women, in a country of women. The same im-
pression came to him dans le monde, as he used to say,
for he made the most incongruous application of his
little French phrases to Boston. The talk, the social
life, were so completely in the hands of the ladies, the
masculine note was so subordinate, that on certain
occasions he could have believed himself (putting the
brightness aside) in a country stricken by a war, where
the men had all gone to the army, or in a seaport
half depopulated by the absence of its vessels. This
idea had intermissions ; for instance, when he walked
out to Cambridge. In this little excursion he often
indulged ; he used to go and see one of his college
mates, who was now a tutor at Harvard. Hestretched
away across the long, mean bridge that spans the
mouth of the Charles—a mile of wooden piles, sup-
porting a brick pavement, a roadway deep in mire, and
a rough timber fence, over which the pedestrian
enjoys a view of the frozen bay, the backs of many new
houses, and a big brown marsh. The horse-cars bore
him company, relieved here of the press of the streets,
though not of their internal congestion, and constitut-
ing the principal feature of the wide, blank avenue,

109

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

where the puddles lay large across the bounding rails.
He followed their direction through a middle region, in
which the small wooden houses had an air of tent-like
impermanence, and the February mornings, splendid
and indiscreet, stared into bare windows and seemed
to make civilisation transparent. Further, the suburb
remained wooden, but grew neat, and the painted
houses looked out on the car-track with an expression
almost of superiority. At Harvard, the buildings were
square and fresh ; they stood in a yard planted with
slender elms, which the winter had reduced to spindles ;
the town stretched away from the horizontal palings
of the collegiate precinct, low, flat, and immense,
with vague, featureless spaces and the air of a clean
encampment. Florimond remembered that when the
summer came in, the whole place was transformed.
It was pervaded by verdure and dust, the slender elms
became profuse, arching over the unpaved streets, the
green shutters bowed themselves before the windows,
the flowers and creeping-plants bloomed in the small
gardens, and on the piazzas, in the gaps of dropped
awnings, light dresses arrested the eye. At night, in
the warm darkness—for Cambridge is not festooned
with lamps—the bosom of nature would seem to
palpitate, there would be a smell of earth and vege-
tation—a smell more primitive than the odour of
Europe—and the air would vibrate with the sound of
insects. All this was in reserve, if one would have
patience, especially from March to June; but for the
present the seat of the University struck our poor little
critical Florimond as rather hard and bare. As the
winter went on, and the days grew longer, he knew
that Mrs. Daintry often believed him to be in Arling-
ton Street when he was walking out to see his friend
the tutor, who had once spent a winter in Paris and
never tired of talking about it. It is to be feared that
he did not undeceive her so punctually as he might ;
IIo

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

for, in the first place, he was at Mrs. Mesh’s very
often ; in the second, he failed to understand how
worried his mother was; and in the third, the idea
that he should be thought to have the peace of mind
of a brilliant girl in his keeping was not disagreeable
to him.

One day his Aunt Lucretia found him in Arlington
Street ; it occurred to her about the middle of the
winter that, considering she liked Rachel Torrance so
much, she had not been to see her very often. She had
little time for such indulgences; but she caught a
moment in its flight, and was told at Mrs. Mesh’s door
that this lady had not yet come in, but that her com-
panion was accessible. Florimond was in his custom-
ary chair by the chimney-corner (his aunt perhaps did
not know quite how customary it was), and Rachel,
at the piano, was regaling him with a composition
of Schubert. Florimond, up to this time, had not
become very intimate with his aunt, who had not, as
it were, given him the key of her house, and in whom
he detected a certain want of interest in his affairs.
He had a limited sympathy with people who were
interested only in their own, and perceived that Miss
Daintry belonged to this preoccupied and ungraceful
class. It seemed to him that it would have been
more becoming in her to feign at least a certain
attention to the professional and social prospects of
the most promising of her nephews. If there was one
thing that Florimond disliked more than another, it
was an eager self-absorption ; and he could not see
that it was any better for people to impose their
personality upon committees and charities than upon
general society. He would have modified this judge-
ment of his kinswoman, with whom he had dined but
once, if he could have guessed with what anxiety she
watched for the symptoms of that salutary change
which she expected to see wrought in him by the

III

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

fascinating independence of Rachel Torrance. If she
had dared, she would have prompted the girl a little ;
she would have confided to her this secret desire.
But the matter was delicate ; and Miss Daintry was
shrewd enough to see that everything must be spon-
taneous. When she paused at the threshold of Mrs.
Mesh’s drawing-room, looking from one of her young
companions to the other, she felt a slight pang, for
she feared they were getting on too well. Rachel
was pouring sweet music into the young man’s ears,
and turning to look at him over her shoulder while she
played ; and he, with his head tipped back and his
eyes on the ceiling, hummed an accompaniment which
occasionally became an articulate remark. Harmoni-
ous intimacy was stamped upon the scene, and poor
Miss Daintry was not struck with its being in any
degree salutary. She was not reassured when, after
ten minutes, Florimond took his departure ; she could
see that he was irritated by the presence of a third
person ; and this was a proof that Rachel had not
yet begun to do her duty by him. It is possible that
when the two ladies were left together, her disap-
pointment would have led her to betray her views,
had not Rachel almost immediately said to her:
“My dear cousin, I am so glad you have come; I
might not have seen you again. I go away in three
days.”

“Go away? Where do you go to? ”

“‘ Back to Brooklyn,” said Rachel, smiling sweetly.

“Why on earth—I thought you had come here to
stay for six months ? ”

‘‘QOh, you know, six months would be a terrible
visit for these good people ; and of course no time was
fixed. That would have been very absurd. I have
been here an immense time already. It was to be as
things should go.”

“ And haven’t they gone well?”

¥T2

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

“Oh yes, they have gone beautifully.”

“ Then why in the world do you leave ? ”

“Well, you know, I have duties at home. My
mother coughs a good deal, and they write me dismal
letters.”

“ They are ridiculous, selfish people. You are going
home because your mother coughs ? I don’t believe a
word of it!’’ Miss Daintry cried. ‘‘ You have some
other reason. Something has happened here; it has
become disagreeable. Be so good as to tell me the
whole story.”’

Rachel answered that there was not any story to
tell, and that her reason consisted entirely of conscien-
tious scruples as to absenting herself so long from
her domestic circle. Miss Daintry esteemed conscien-
tious scruples when they were well placed, but she
thought poorly on the present occasion of those of
Mrs. Mesh’s visitor ; they interfered so much with her
own sense of fitness. ‘‘ Has Florimond been making
love to you? ”’ she suddenly inquired. ‘‘ You mustn’t
mind that—beyond boxing his ears.”’

Her question appeared to amuse Miss Torrance
exceedingly ; and the girl, a little inarticulate with her
mirth, answered very positively that the young man
had done her no such honour.

‘““T am very sorry to hear it,” said Lucretia; “I
was in hopes he would give you a chance to take him
down. He needs it very much. He’s dreadfully
puffed up.”

‘“‘ He’s an amusing little man ! ”’

Miss Daintry put on her nippers. ‘‘ Don’t tell me
it’s you that are in love! ”’

“Oh dear, no!. I like big, serious men ; not small
Frenchified gentlemen, like Florimond. Excuse me if
he’s your nephew, but you began it. Though I am
fond of art,” the girl added, ‘‘ I don’t think I am fond
of artists.”’

113 I

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

“ Do you call Florimond an artist ? ”’

Rachel Torrance hesitated a little, smiling. ‘‘ Yes,
when he poses for Pauline Mesh.”’

This rejoinder for a moment left Miss Daintry in
visible perplexity ; then a sudden light seemed to come
to her. She flushed a little; what she found was
more than she was looking for. She thought of many
things quickly, and among others she thought that she
had accomplished rather more than she intended.
“Have you quarrelled with Pauline?” she said
presently.

‘“‘ No, but she is tired of me.”

‘‘ Everything has not gone well, then, and you have
another reason for going home than your mother’s
cough ? ”’

“ Yes, if you must know, Pauline wants me to go.
I didn’t feel free to tell you that; but since you
guess it——— ’’ said Rachel, with her rancourless smile.

““ Has she asked you to decamp ? ”

“Qh dear, no! for what do you take us? But she
absents herself from the house; she stays away all
day. I have to play to Florimond to console him.”’

“So you have been fighting about him? ’”’ Miss
Daintry remarked, perversely.

“Ah, my dear cousin, what have you got in your
head? Fighting about sixpence! if you knew how
Florimond bores me! I play to him to keep him
silent. I have heard everything he has to say, fifty
times over ! ”

Miss Daintry sank back in her chair; she was
completely out of her reckoning. “I think he might
have made love to you a little!’ she exclaimed, in-
coherently.

“So do I! but he didn’t—not a crumb. He is
afraid of me—thank heaven ! ”’

“ It isn’t for you he comes, then ?”’ Miss Daintry
appeared to cling to her theory.

114

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

“No, my dear cousin, it isn’t |”

““ Just now, as he sat there, one could easily have
supposed it. He didn’t at all like my interrup-
tion.”

‘That was because he was waiting for Pauline to
come in. He will wait that way an hour. You may
imagine whether he likes me for boring her so that, as
I tell you, she can’t stay in the house. I am out my-
self as much as possible. But there are days when I
drop with fatigue; then I must rest. I can assure
you that it’s fortunate that I go so soon.”

“Is Pauline in love with him?” Miss Daintry
asked, gravely.

“Not a grain. She is the best little woman in the
world.”

“ Except for being a goose. Why, then, does she
object to your company—after being so enchanted
with you ? ”

‘* Because even the best little woman in the world
must object to something. She has everything in life,
and nothing to complain of. Her children sleep all
day, and her cook is a jewel. Her husband adores her,
and she is perfectly satisfied with Mr. Mesh. I act on
her nerves, and I think she believes I regard her as
rather silly to care so much for Florimond. Excuse
me again ! ”’

“ You contradict yourself. She does care for him,
then ?”’

‘‘ Oh, as she would care for anew coupé! She likes
to have a young man of her own—fresh from Paris
—quite to herself. She has everything else—why
shouldn’t she have that? She thinks your nephew
very original, and he thinks her what she is—the
prettiest woman in Boston. They have an idea that
they are making a ‘celebrated friendship ’—like
Horace Walpole and Madame du Deffand. They sit
there face to face—they are as innocent as the shovel

15

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

and tongs. But, all the same, I am in the way, and
Pauline is provoked that I am not jealous.”’

Miss Daintry got up with energy. ‘“‘She’s a vain,
hollow, silly little creature, and you are quite right to
go away; you are worthy of better company. Only
you will not go back to Brooklyn, in spite of your
mother’s cough; you will come straight to Mount
Vernon Place.”

Rachel hesitated to agree to this. She appeared
to think it was her duty to quit Boston altogether ;
and she gave as a reason that she had already refused
other invitations. But Miss Daintry had a better
reason than this—a reason that glowed in her indig-
nant breast. It was she who had been the cause of
the girl’s being drawn into this sorry adventure ; it
was she who should charge herself with the reparation.
The conversation I have related took place on a
Tuesday ; and it was settled that on the Friday Miss
Torrance should take up her abode for the rest of the
winter under her Cousin Lucretia’s roof. This lady
left the house without having seen Mrs. Mesh.

On Thursday she had a visit from her sister-in-law,
the motive of which was not long in appearing. All
winter Mrs. Daintry had managed to keep silent on
the subject of her doubts and fears. Discretion and
dignity recommended this course ; and the topic was
a painful one to discuss with Lucretia, for the bruises
of their primary interview still occasionally throbbed.
But at the first sign of alleviation the excellent woman
overflowed, and she lost no time in announcing to
Lucretia, as a heaven-sent piece of news, that Rachel
had been called away by the illness of poor Mrs. Tor-
rance and was to leave Boston from one day to the
other. Florimond had given her this information the
evening before, and it had made her so happy that she
couldn’t help coming to let Lucretia know that they
were Safe. Lucretia listened to her announcement in

116

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

silence, fixing her eyes on her sister-in-law with an
expression that the latter thought singular ; but when
Mrs. Daintry, expanding still further, went on to say
that she had spent a winter of misery, that the harm
the two together (she and Lucretia) might have done
was never out of her mind, for Florimond’s assiduity in
Arlington Street had become notorious, and she had
been told that the most cruel things were said—when
Mrs. Daintry, expressing herself to this effect, added
that from the present moment she breathed, the danger
was over, the sky was clear, and her conscience might
take a holiday—her hostess broke into the most pro-
longed, the most characteristic and most bewildering
fit of laughter in which she had ever known her to
indulge. They were safe, Mrs. Daintry had said ?
For Lucretia this was true, now, of herself, at least ;
she was secure from the dangers of her irritation ; her
sense of the whole affair had turned to hilarious music.
The contrast that rose before her between her visitor’s
anxieties and the real position of the parties, her quick
vision of poor Susan’s dismay in case that reality should
meet her eyes, among the fragments of her squandered
scruples—these things smote the chords of mirth in
Miss Daintry’s spirit, and seemed to her in their high
comicality to offer a sufficient reason for everything
that had happened. The picture of her sister-in-law
sitting all winter with her hands clasped and her eyes
fixed on the wrong object was an image that would
abide with her always ; and it would render her an
inestimable service—it would cure her of the tendency
to worry. As may be imagined, it was eminently
open to Mrs. Daintry to ask her what on earth she
was laughing at ; and there was a colour in the cheek
of Florimond’s mother that brought her back to pro-
priety. She suddenly kissed this lady very tenderly—
to the latter's great surprise, there having been no
kissing since her visit in November—and told her
117

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

that she would reveal to her some day, later, the cause
of so much merriment. She added that Miss Torrance
was leaving Arlington Street, yes; but only to go
as far as Mount Vernon Place. She was engaged
to spend three months in that very house. Mrs.
Daintry’s countenance at this fell several inches, and
her joy appeared completely to desert her. She gave
her sister-in-law a glance of ineffable reproach, and
in a moment she exclaimed: “ Then nothing is
gained ! it will all go on here! ”’

“Nothing will go on here. If you mean that
Florimond will pursue the young lady into this moun-
tain fastness, you may simply be quiet. He is not
fond enough of me to wear out my threshold.”

“Are you very sure? ”’ Mrs. Daintry murmured,
dubiously.

“I know what Isay. Hasn't he told you he hates
me?”

Mrs. Daintry coloured again, and hesitated. ‘I
don’t know how you think we talk,” she said.

‘Well, he does, and he will leave us alone.”

Mrs. Daintry sprang up with an elasticity that was
comical. “ That’s all I ask!’ she exclaimed.

“* I believe you hate me too ! ’’ Lucretia said, laugh-
ing ; but at any risk she kissed her sister-in-law again
before they separated.

Three weeks later Mrs. Daintry paid her another
visit ; and this time she looked very serious. “‘ It’s
very strange. I don’t know what to think. But
perhaps you know it already ?”’ This was her entrée
en mattére, as the French say. ‘ Rachel’s leaving
Arlington Street has made no difference. He goes
there as much as ever. I see no change at all.
Lucretia, 1 have not the peace that I thought had
come,” said poor Mrs. Daintry, whose voice had
failed, below her breath.

“‘ Do you mean that he goes to see Pauline Mesh ? ”

118

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

“Tam afraid so, every day.”

“Well, my dear, what’s the harm ? ”’ Miss Daintry
asked. ‘He can’t hurt her by not marrying
her.”

Mrs. Daintry stared ; she was amazed at her sister-
in-law’s tone. ‘“‘ But it makes one suppose that all
winter, for so many weeks, it has been for hey that
he has gone!’’ And the image of the ¢éte-d-téte in
which she had found them immersed that day rose
again before her ; she could interpret it now.

“You wanted some one; why may not Pauline
have served ? ”

Mrs. Daintry was silent, with the same expanded
eyes. “ Lucretia, it is not right!”

“My dear Susan, you are touching,’ Lucretia
said.

Mrs. Daintry went on, without heeding her. “ It
appears that people are talking about it; they have
noticed it for ever so long. Joanna never hears any-
thing, or she would have told me. The children are
too much. I have been the last to know.”

‘““I knew it a month ago,” said Miss Daintry,
smiling.

“And you never told me ? ”

‘I knew that you wanted to detain him. Pauline
will detain him a year.”

Mrs. Daintry gathered herself together. ‘‘ Not a
day, not an hour, that I can help! He shall go, if I
have to take him.”

“‘ My dear Susan,’’ murmured her sister-in-law on
the threshold. Miss Daintry scarcely knew what to
say; she was almost frightened at the rigidity of her
face.

“My dear Lucretia, it is not right!’ This ejacu-
lation she solemnly repeated, and she took her de-
parture as if she were decided upon action.

She had found so little sympathy in her sister-in-

119

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

law that she made no answer to a note Miss Daintry
wrote her that evening, to remark that she was really
unjust to Pauline, who was silly, vain, and flattered by
the development of her ability to monopolise an im-
pressionist, but a perfectly innocent little woman and
incapable of a serious flirtation. Miss Daintry had
been careful to add to these last words no comment
that could possibly shock Florimond’s mother. Mrs.
Daintry announced, about the roth of April, that she
had made up her mind she needed a change, and had
determined to go abroad for the summer; and she
looked so tired that people could see there was reason
in it. Her summer began early ; she embarked on
the 20th of the month, accompanied by Florimond.
Miss Daintry, who had not been obliged to dismiss
the young lady of the kindergarten to make room for
Rachel Torrance, never knew what had passed between
the mother and the son, and she was disappointed at
Mrs. Mesh’s coolness in the face of this catastrophe.
She disapproved of her flirtation with Florimond, and
yet she was vexed at Pauline’s pert resignation ; it
proved her to be so superficial. She disposed of
everything with her absurd little phrases, which were
half slang and half quotation. Mrs. Daintry was a
native of Salem, and this gave Pauline, as a Balti-
morean and a descendant of the Cavaliers, an obvious
opportunity. Rachel repeated her words to Miss
Daintry, for she had spoken to Rachel of Florimond’s
departure, the day after he embarked. ‘“‘ Oh yes, he’s
in the midst of the foam, the cruel, crawling foam! I
‘kind of’ miss him, afternoons; he was so useful
round the fire. It’s his mother that charmed him
away ; she’s a most uncanny old party. I don’t care
for Salem witches, anyway ; she has worked on him
with philters and spells!’ Lucretia was obliged to
recognise a grain of truth in this last assertion ; she
felt that her sister-in-law must indeed have worked
170

A NEW ENGLAND WINTER

upon Florimond, and she smiled to think that the
conscientious Susan should have descended, in the
last resort, to an artifice, to a pretext. She had
probably persuaded him she was out of patience with
Joanna’s children.

I2I

THE PATH OF DUTY

123

I am glad I said to you the other night at Doubleton,
inquiring—too inquiring—compatriot, that I wouldn’t
undertake to tell you the story (about Ambrose
Tester), but would write it out for you ; inasmuch
as, thinking it over since I came back to town, I see
that it may really be made interesting. It ts a story,
with a regular development, and for telling it I have
the advantage that I happened to know about it
from the first, and was more or less in the confidence
of every one concerned. Then it will amuse me to
write it, and I shall do so as carefully and as cleverly
as possible. The first winter days in London are not
madly gay, so that I have plenty of time, and if the
fog 1s brown outside, the fire is red within. I like
the quiet of this season ; the glowing chimney-corner,
in the midst of the December mirk, makes me think,
as I sit by it, of all sorts of things. The idea that is
almost always uppermost is the bigness and strange-
ness of this London world. Long as I have lived
here—the sixteenth anniversary of my marriage is
only ten days off—there is still a kind of novelty and
excitement in it. It is a great pull, as they say here,
to have remained sensitive—to have kept one’s own
point of view. I mean it’s more entertaining—it
makes you see a thousand things (not that they are
all very charming). But the pleasure of observa-
tion does not in the least depend on the beauty of
what one observes. You see innumerable little
dramas; in fact almost everything has acts and
125

THE PATH OF DUTY

scenes, like a comedy. Very often it is a comedy
with tears. There have been a good many of them,
I am afraid, in the case I am speaking of. It is
because this history of Sir Ambrose Tester and Lady
Vandeleur struck me, when you asked me about the
relations of the parties, as having that kind of pro-
gression, that when I was on the point of responding
I checked myself, thinking it a pity to tell you a
little when I might tell you all. I scarcely know
what made you ask, inasmuch as I had said nothing
to excite your curiosity. Whatever you suspected
you suspected on your own hook, as they say. You
had simply noticed the pair together that evening at
Doubleton. If you suspected anything in particular,
it is a proof that you are rather sharp, because they
are very careful about the way they behave in public.
At least they think they are; the result, perhaps,
doesn’t necessarily follow. If I have been in their
confidence you may say that I make a strange use
of my privilege in serving them up to feed the preju-
dices of an opinionated American. You think English
society very wicked, and my little story will probably
not correct the impression. Though, after all, I
don’t see why it should minister to it; for what I
said to you (it was all I did say) remains the truth.
They are treading together the path of duty. You
would be quite right about its being base in me to
betray them. It is very true that they have ceased
to confide in me; even Joscelind has said nothing
to me for more than a year. That is doubtless a
sign that the situation is more serious than before,
all round—too serious to be talked about. It is also
true that you are remarkably discreet, and that even
if you were not it would not make much difference,
inasmuch as if you were to repeat my revelations in
America no one would know whom you were talking
about. But, all the same, I should be base; and,
) 126

THE PATH OF DUTY

therefore, after I have written out my reminiscences
for your delectation, I shall simply keep them for
my own. You must content yourself with the ex-
planation I have already given you of Sir Ambrose
Tester and Lady Vandeleur: they are following—
hand in hand, as it were—the path of duty. This
will not prevent me from telling everything ; on the
contrary, don’t you see ?

127

I

His brilliant prospects dated from the death of his
brother, who had no children, had indeed steadily
refused to marry. When I say brilliant prospects, I
mean the vision of the baronetcy, one of the oldest
in England, of a charming seventeenth-century house,
with its park, in Dorsetshire, and a property worth
some twenty thousand a year. Such a collection of
items is still dazzling to me, even after what you
would call, I suppose, a familiarity with British
grandeur. My husband isn’t a baronet (or we prob-
ably shouldn’t be in London in December), and he is
far, alas, from having twenty thousand a year. The
full enjoyment of these luxuries, on Ambrose Tester’s
part, was dependent naturally on the death of his
father, who was still very much to the fore at the
time I first knew the young man. The proof of it
is the way he kept nagging at his sons, as the younger
used to say, on the question of taking a wife. The
nagging had been of no avail, as I have mentioned,
with regard to Francis, the elder, whose affections
were centred (his brother himself told me) on the
wine-cup and the faro-table. He was not a person
to admire or imitate, and as the heir to an honourable
name and a fine estate was very unsatisfactory indeed.
It had been possible in those days to put him into
the army, but it was not possible to keep him there,
and he was still a very young man when it became
128

THE PATH OF DUTY

plain that any parental dream of a “ career’”’ for
Frank Tester was exceedingly vain. Old Sir Edmund
had thought matrimony would perhaps correct him,
but a sterner process than this was needed, and it
came to him one day at Monaco—he was most of the
time abroad—after an illness so short that none of
the family arrived in time. He was reformed alto-
gether, he was utterly abolished. The second son,
stepping into his shoes, was such an improvement
that it was impossible there should be much simula-
tion of mourning. You have seen him, you know
what he is, there is very little mystery about him.
As I am not going to show this composition to you,
there is no harm in my writing here that he is—or,
at any rate, he was—a remarkably attractive man.
I don’t say this because he made love to me, but
precisely because he didn’t. He was always in love
with some one else—generally with Lady Vandeleur.
You may say that in England that usually doesn’t
prevent ; but Mr. Tester, though he had almost no
intermissions, didn’t, as a general thing, have dupli-
cates. He was not provided with a second loved
object, “‘ under-studying,’’ as they say, the part. It
was his practice to keep me accurately informed of
the state of his affections—a matter about which he
was never in the least vague. When he was in love
he knew it and rejoiced in it, and when by a miracle
he was not he greatly regretted it. He expatiated to
me on the charms of other persons, and this in-
terested me much more than if he had attempted to
direct the conversation to my own, as regards which
I had no illusions. He has told me some singular
things, and I think I may say that for a considerable
period my most valued knowledge of English society
was extracted from this genial youth. I suppose he
usually found me a woman'of good counsel, for
certain it is that he has appealed to me for the light

129 K .

THE PATH OF DUTY

of wisdom in very extraordinary predicaments. In his
earlier years he was perpetually in hot water; he
tumbled into scrapes as children tumble into puddles.
He invited them, he invented them; and when he
came to tell you how his trouble had come about
(and he always told the whole truth) it was difficult
to believe that a man should have been so idiotic.
And yet he was not an idiot; he was supposed
to be very clever, and certainly is very quick and
amusing. He was only reckless, and extraordinarily
natural, as natural as if he had been an Irishman.
In fact, of all the Englishmen that I have known he
is the most Irish in temperament (though he has got
over it comparatively of late). I used to tell him
that it was a great inconvenience that he didn’t speak
with a brogue, because then we should be forewarned
and know with whom we were dealing. He replied
that, by analogy, if he were Irish enough to have a
brogue he would probably be English ; which seemed
to me an answer wonderfully in character. Like
most young Britons of his class he went to America,
to see the great country, before he was twenty, and
he took a letter to my father, who had occasion,
ad propos of some pickle, of course, to render him a
considerable service. This led to his coming to see
me—I had already been living here three or four
years—on his return; and that, in the course of
time, led to our becoming fast friends, without, as
I tell you, the smallest philandering on either side.
But I mustn't protest too much ; I shall excite your
suspicion. “ If he has made love to so many women,
why shouldn’t he have made love to you ? ’’—some
inquiry of that sort you will be likely to make. I
have answered it already, “Simply on account of
those very engagements.”’ He couldn’t make love to
every one, and with me it wouldn’t have done him
the least good. It was a more amiable weakness
130

THE PATH OF DUTY

than his brother’s, and he has always behaved very
well. How well he behaved on a very important
occasion is precisely the subject of my story.

He was supposed to have embraced the diplomatic
career, had been secretary of legation at some German
capital; but after his brother’s death he came home
and looked out for a seat in Parliament. He found
it with no great trouble, and has kept it ever since.
No one would have the heart to turn him out, he is
so good-looking. It’s a great thing to be represented
by one of the handsomest men in England, it creates
such a favourable association of ideas. Any one
would be amazed to discover that the borough he
sits for, and the name of which I am always forgetting,
is not a very pretty place. J have never seen it, and
have no idea that it isn’t, and I am sure he will
survive every revolution. The people must feel that
if they shouldn’t keep him some monster would be
returned. You remember his appearance, how tall,
and fair, and strong he is, and always laughing, yet
without looking silly. He is exactly the young man
girls in America figure to themselves—in the place of
the hero—when they read English novels and wish
to imagine something very aristocratic and Saxon.
A “bright Bostonian ’’ who met him once at my
house, exclaimed as soon as he had gone out of the
room, ‘‘ At last, at last, I behold it, the moustache
of Roland Tremayne ! ”’

“Of Roland Tremayne ? ”’

“Don’t you remember in A Lawless Love, how
often it’s mentioned, and how glorious and golden it
was ? Well, I have never seen it till now, but now
I have seen it!”

If you hadn’t seen Ambrose Tester, the best de-
scription I could give of him would be to say that he
looked like Roland Tremayne. I don’t know whether
that hero was a “‘ strong Liberal,” but this is what

131

THE PATH OF DUTY

Sir Ambrose is supposed to be. (He succeeded his
father two years ago, but I shall come to that.) He
is not exactly what I should call thoughtful, but he
is interested, or thinks he is, in a lot of things that
I don’t understand, and that one sees and skips in
the newspapers — volunteering, and redistribution,
and sanitation, and the representation of minors—
minorities—what is it? When I said just now that
he is always laughing, I ought to have explained that
I didn’t mean when he is talking to Lady Vandeleur.
She makes him serious, makes him almost solemn ;
by which I don’t mean that she bores him. Far
from it ; but when he is in her company he is thought-
ful; he pulls his golden moustache, and Roland
Tremayne looks as if his vision were turned in, and
he were meditating on her words. He doesn’t say
much himself; it is she—she used to be so silent—
who does the talking. She has plenty to say to him ;
she describes to him the charms that she discovers
in the path of duty. He seldom speaks in the
House, I believe, but when he does it’s off-hand, and
amusing, and sensible, and every one likes it. He
will never be a great statesman, but he will add to
the softness of Dorsetshire, and remain, in short, a
very gallant, pleasant, prosperous, typical English
gentleman, with a name, a fortune, a perfect appear-
ance, a devoted, bewildered little wife, a great many
reminiscences, a great many friends (including Lady
Vandeleur and myself), and, strange to say, with all
these advantages, something that faintly resembles a
conscience.

132

II

FIVE years ago he told me his father insisted on his
marrying—would not hear of his putting it off any
longer. Sir Edmund had been harping on this string
ever since he came back from Germany, had made
it both a general and a particular request, not only
urging him to matrimony in the abstract, but pushing
him into the arms of every young woman in the
country. Ambrose had promised, procrastinated,
temporised ; but at last he was at the end of his
evasions, and his poor father had taken the tone of
supplication. ‘‘ He thinks immensely of the name,
of the place, and all that, and he has got it into his
head that if I don’t marry before he dies I won't
marry after.”” So much I remember Ambrose Tester
said tome. ‘It’s a fixed idea; he has got it on the
brain. He wants to see me married with his eyes,
and he wants to take his grandson in his arms. Not
without that will he be satisfied that the whole thing
will go straight. He thinks he is nearing his end,
but he isn’t—he will live to see a hundred, don’t you
think so ?>—and he has made me a solemn appeal to
put an end to what he calls his suspense. He has
an idea some one will get hold of me—some woman
I can’t marry. As if I were not old enough to take
care of myself!”

“Perhaps he is afraid of me,’ I suggested,
facetiously.

133

THE PATH OF DUTY

“No, it isn’t you,” said my visitor, betraying by
his tone that it was some one, though he didn’t say
whom. ‘“ That’s all rot, of course; one marries
sooner or later, and I shall do like every one else. If
I marry before I die it’s as good as if I marry before
he dies, isn’t it? I should be delighted to have the
governor at my wedding, but it isn’t necessary for the
legality, is it ? ”’

I asked him what he wished me to do, and how
I could help him. He knew already my peculiar
views, that I was trying to get husbands for all the
girls of my acquaintance and to prevent the men
from taking wives. The sight of an unmarried
woman afflicted me, and yet when my male friends
changed their state I took it as a personal offence.
He let me know that, so far as he was concerned, I
must prepare myself for this injury, for he had given
his father his word that another twelvemonth should
not see him a bachelor. The old man had given
him carte blanche, he made no condition beyond
exacting that the lady should have youth and health.
Ambrose Tester, at any rate, had taken a vow, and
now he was going seriously to look about him. I
said to him that what must be must be, and that
there were plenty of charming girls about the land,
among whom he could suit himself easily enough.
There was no better match in England, I said, and
he would only have to make his choice. That, how-
ever, is not what I thought, for my real reflexions
were summed up in the silent exclamation, ‘‘ What
a pity Lady Vandeleur isn’t a widow!” I hadn't
the smallest doubt that if she were he would marry
her on the spot ; and after he had gone I wondered
considerably what she thought of this turn in his
affairs. If it was disappointing to me, how little it
must be to her taste! Sir Edmund had not been
so much out of the way in fearing there might be

134

THE PATH OF DUTY

obstacles to his son’s taking the step he desired.
Margaret Vandeleur was an obstacle—I knew it as
well as if Mr. Tester had told me.

I don’t mean there was anything in their relation
he might not freely have alluded to, for Lady Vande-
leur, in spite of her beauty and her tiresome husband,
was not a woman who could be accused of an indis-
cretion. Her husband was a pedant about trifles—
the shape of his hat-brim, the pose of his coachman,
and cared for nothing else; but she was as nearly
a saint as one may be when one has rubbed shoulders
for ten years with the best society in Europe. It is
a characteristic of that society that even its saints
are suspected, and I go too far in saying that little
pin-pricks were not administered, in considerable
numbers, to her reputation. But she didn’t feel
them, for, still more than Ambrose Tester, she was
a person to whose happiness a good conscience was
necessary. I should almost say that for her happiness
it was sufficient, and, at any rate, it was.only those
who didn’t know her that pretended to speak of her
lightly. If one had the honour of her acquaintance
one might have thought her rather shut up to her
beauty and her grandeur, but one couldn’t but feel
there was something in her composition that would
keep her from vulgar aberrations. Her husband was
such a feeble type that she must have felt doubly she
had been put upon her honour. To deceive such a
man as that was to make him more ridiculous than
he was already, and from such a result a woman
bearing his name may very well have shrunk. Per-
haps it would have been worse for Lord Vandeleur,
who had every pretension of his order and none of
its amiability, if he had been a better or, at least, a
cleverer man. When a woman behaves so well she
is not obliged to be careful, and there is no need
of consulting appearances when one is one’s self an

135

THE PATH OF DUTY

appearance. Lady Vandeleur accepted Ambrose
Tester’s attentions, and heaven knows they were
frequent ; but she had such an air of perfect equi-
librium that one couldn’t see her, in imagination, bend
responsive. Incense was incense, but one saw her
sitting quite serene among the fumes. That honour
of her acquaintance of which I just now spoke it had
been given me to enjoy ; that is to say, I met her a
dozen times in the season in a hot crowd, and we
smiled sweetly and murmured a vague question or
two, without hearing, or even trying to hear, each
other’s answer. If I knew that Ambrose Tester was
perpetually in and out of her house and always
arranging with her that they should go to the same
places, I doubt whether she, on her side, knew how
often he came to see me. I don’t think he would
have let her know, and am conscious, in saying this,
that it indicated an advanced state of intimacy (with
her, I mean).

I also doubt very much whether he asked her to
look about, on his behalf, for a future Lady Tester.
This request he was so good as to make of me; but
I told him I would have nothing to do with the
matter. If Joscelind is unhappy, I am thankful to
say the responsibility is not mine. I have found
English husbands for two or three American girls,
but providing English wives is a different affair. I
know the sort of men that will suit women, but one
would have to be very clever to know the sort of
women that will suit men. I told Ambrose Tester
that he must look out for himself, but, in spite of his
promise, I had very little belief that he would do
anything of the sort. I thought it probable that the
old baronet would pass away without seeing a new
generation come in; though when I intimated as
much to Mr. Tester, he made answer in substance (it
was not quite so crudely said) that his father, old as

136 :

THE PATH OF DUTY

he was, would hold on till his bidding was done, and
if it should not be done he would hold on out of
spite. ‘‘ Oh, he will tire me out ” : that I remember
Ambrose Tester did say. I had done him injustice,
for six months later he told me he was engaged. It
had all come about very suddenly. From one day
to the other the right young woman had been found.
I forget who had found her; some aunt or cousin, I
think ; it had not been the young man himself. But
when she was found, he rosé to the occasion ; he took
her up seriously, he approved of her thoroughly, and
I am not sure that he didn’t fall a little in love with
her, ridiculous (excuse my London tone) as this
accident may appear. He told me that his father
was delighted, and I knew afterwards that he had
good reason to be. It was not till some weeks later
that I saw the girl; but meanwhile I had received
the pleasantest impression of her, and this impression
came—must have come—mainly from what her in-
tended told me. That proves that he spoke with
some positiveness, spoke as if he really believed he
was doing a good thing. I had it on my tongue’s
end to ask him how Lady Vandeleur liked her, but
I fortunately checked this vulgar inquiry. He liked
her, evidently, as I say; every one liked her, and
when I knew her I liked her better even than the
others. I like her to-day more than ever ; it is fair
you should know that, in reading this account of her
situation. It doubtless colours my picture, gives a
point to my sense of the strangeness of my little story.

Joscelind Bernardstone came of a military race,
and had been brought up in camps—by which I don’t
mean she was one of those objectionable young
women who are known as garrison-hacks. She was
in the flower of her freshness, and had been kept in
the tent, receiving, as an only daughter, the most
“ particular’”’ education from the excellent Lady

137

THE PATH OF DUTY

Emily (General Bernardstone married a daughter of
Lord Clanduffy), who looks like a pink-faced rabbit,
and is (after Joscelind) one of the nicest women I
know. When I met them in a country-house, a few
weeks after the marriage was “ arranged,’’ as they
say here, Joscelind won my affections by saying to
me, with her timid directness (the speech made me
feel sixty years old), that she must thank me for
having been so kind to Mr. Tester. You saw her at
Doubleton, and you will remember that, though she
has no regular beauty, many a prettier woman would
be very glad to look like her. She is as fresh as a
new-laid egg, as light as a feather, as strong as a
mail-phaeton. She is perfectly mild, yet she is clever
enough to be sharp if she would. I don’t know that
clever women are necessarily thought ill-natured, but
it is usually taken for granted that amiable women
are very limited. Lady Tester is a refutation of the
theory, which must have been invented by a vixenish
woman who was ot clever. She has an adoration
for her husband, which absorbs her without in the
least making her silly, unless indeed it is silly to be
modest, as in this brutal world I sometimes believe.
Her modesty is so great that being unhappy has
hitherto presented itself to her as a form of egotism—
that egotism which she has too much delicacy to
cultivate. She is by no means sure that, if being
married to her beautiful baronet is not the ideal
state she dreamed it, the weak point of the affair
is not simply in her own presumption. It doesn’t
express her condition, at present, to say that she is
unhappy or disappointed, or that she has a sense
of injury. All this is latent; meanwhile, what is
obvious is that she is bewildered—she simply doesn’t
understand, and her perplexity, to me, is unspeakably
touching. She looks about her for some explanation,
some light. She fixes her eyes on mine sometimes,
138

THE PATH OF DUTY

and on those of other people, with a kind of searching
dumbness, as if there were some chance that I—that
they—may explain, may tell her what it is that has
happened to her. I can explain very well—but not
to her—only to you !

139

Ill

It was a brilliant match for Miss Bernardstone, who
had no fortune at all, and all her friends were of
the opinion that she had done very well. After
Easter she was in London with her people, and I
saw a good deal of them—in fact, I rather cultivated
them. They might perhaps even have thought
me a little patronising, if they had been given to
thinking that sort of thing. But they were not;
that is not in their line. English people are very
apt to attribute motives—some of them attribute
much worse ones than we poor simpletons in America
recognise, than we have even heard of. But that
is only some of them ; others don’t, but take every-
thing literally and genially. That was the case
with the Bernardstones; you could be sure that
on their way home, after dining with you, they
wouldn't ask each other how in the world any one
could call you pretty, or say that many people did
believe, all the same, that you had poisoned your
grandfather.

Lady Emily was exceedingly gratified at her
daughter’s engagement; of course she was very
quiet about it, she didn’t clap her hands or drag
in Mr. Tester’s name; but it was easy to see that
she felt a kind of maternal peace, an abiding satis-
faction. The young man behaved as well as possible,
was constantly seen with Joscelind, and smiled

140

THE PATH OF DUTY

down at her in the kindest, most protecting way.
They looked beautiful together—you would have
said it was a duty for people whose colour matched
so well to marry. Of course he was immensely
taken up, and didn’t come very often to see me;
but he came sometimes, and when he sat there he
had a look which I didn’t understand at first.
Presently I saw what it expressed; in my draw-
ing-room he was off duty, he had no longer to sit
up and play a part; he would lean back and rest
and draw a long breath, and forget that the day
of his execution was fixed. There was to be no
indecent haste about the marriage; it was not to
take place till after the session, at the end of
August. It puzzled me and rather distressed me
that his heart shouldn’t be a little more in the matter ;
it seemed strange to be engaged to so charming
a girl and yet go through with it as if it were simply
a social duty. If one hadn’t been in love with her
at first, one ought to have been at the end of a week
or two. If Ambrose Tester was not (and to me he
didn’t pretend to be), he carried it off, as I have
said, better than I should have expected. He was
a gentleman, and he behaved like a gentleman—
with the added punctilio, I think, of being sorry for
his betrothed. But it was difficult to see what,
in the long run, he could expect to make of such a
position. If a man marries an ugly, unattractive
woman for reasons of state, the thing is comparatively
simple ; it is understood between them, and he need
have no remorse at not offering her a sentiment of
which there has been no question. But when he
picks out a charming creature to gratify his father
and les convenances, it is not so easy to be happy in
not being able to care for her. It seemed to me
that it would have been much better for Ambrose
Tester to bestow himself upon a girl who might
I4I

THE PATH OF DUTY

have given him an excuse for tepidity. His wife
should have been healthy but stupid, prolific but
morose. Did he expect to continue not to be in
love with Joscelind, or to conceal from her the
mechanical nature of his attentions? It was difficult
to see how he could wish to do the one or succeed in
doing the other. Did he expect such a girl as that
would be happy if he didn’t love her? and did he
think himself capable of being happy if it should
turn out that she was miserable? If she shouldn’t
be miserable—that is, if she should be indifferent,
and, as they say, console herself, would he like that
any better ?

I asked myself all these questions and I should
have liked to ask them of Mr. Tester; but I didn’t,
for after all he couldn’t have answered them. Poor
young man! he didn’t pry into things as I do; he
was not analytic, like us Americans, as they say in
reviews. He thought he was behaving remarkably
well, and so he was—for a man ; that was the strange
part of it. It had been proper that in spite of his
reluctance he should take a wife, and he had duti-
fully set about it. Asa good thing is better for being
well done, he had taken the best one he could possibly
find. He was enchanted with—with his young lady,
you might ask? Not in the least; with himself ;
that is the sort of person a man is! Their virtues
are more dangerous than their vices, and heaven
preserve you when they want to keep a promise!
It is never a promise to you, you will notice. A
man will sacrifice a woman to live as a gentleman
should, and then ask for your sympathy—for him |
And I don’t speak of the bad ones, but of the good.
They, after all, are the worst. Ambrose Tester, as
I say, didn’t go into these details, but, synthetic as
he might be, was conscious that his position was false.
He felt that sooner or later, and rather sooner than

142

THE PATH OF DUTY

later, he would have to make it true—a process that
couldn’t possibly be agreeable. He would really
have to make up his mind to care for his wife or not
to care for her. What would Lady Vandeleur say
to one alternative, and what would little Joscelind
say to the other? That is what it was to have a
pertinacious father and to be an accommodating
son. With me it was easy for Ambrose Tester to
be superficial, for, as I tell you, if I didn’t wish to
engage him, I didn’t wish to disengage him, and
I didn’t insist. Lady Vandeleur insisted, I was
afraid ; to be with her was, of course, very compli-
cated; even more than Miss Bernardstone she
must have made him feel that his position was
false. I must add that he once mentioned to me
that she had told him he ought to marry. At any
rate it is an immense thing to be a pleasant fellow.
Our young fellow was so universally pleasant that,
of course, his fiamcée came in for her share. So
did Lady Emily, suffused with hope, which made
her pinker than ever; she told me he sent flowers
even toher. One day in the Park, I was riding early ;
the Row was almost empty. I came up behind a
lady and gentleman who were walking their horses,
close to each other, side by side. In a moment I
recognised her, but not before seeing that nothing
could have been more benevolent than the way
Ambrose Tester was bending over his future wife.
If he struck me as a lover at that moment, of course
he struck her so. But that isn’t the way they ride
to-day.

143

IV

ONE day, about the end of June, he came in to see
me when I had two or three other visitors; you
know that even at that season I am almost always
at home from six to seven. He had not been three
minutes in the room before I saw that he was different
—different from what he had been the last time, and
I guessed that something had happened in relation
to his marriage. My visitors didn’t, unfortunately,
and they stayed and stayed until I was afraid he
would have to go away without telling me what, I
was sure, he had come for. But he sat them out;
I think that, by exception, they didn’t find him
pleasant. After we were alone he abused them a
little, and then he said, ‘‘ Have you heard about
Vandeleur? He’s very ill. She’s awfully anxious.”
I hadn’t heard, and I told him so, asking a question
or two ; then my inquiries ceased, my breath almost
failed me, for I had become aware of something very
strange. The way he looked at me when he told me
his news was a full confession—a confession so full
that I had needed a moment to take it in. He
was not too strong a man to be taken by surprise
—not so strong but that in the presence of an un-
expected occasion his first movement was to look
about for a little help. I venture to call it help,
the sort of thing he came to me for on that summer
afternoon. It is always help when a woman who

144

THE PATH OF DUTY

is not an idiot lets an embarrassed man take up her
time. If he too is not an idiot, that doesn’t diminish
the service; on the contrary his superiority to the
average helps him to profit. Ambrose Tester had
said to me more than once, in the past, that he was
capable of telling me things, because I was an American,
that he wouldn’t confide to his own people. He had
proved it before this, as I have hinted, and I must say
that being an American, with him, was sometimes
a questionable honour. I don’t know whether he
thinks us more discreet and more sympathetic (if
he keeps up the system: he has abandoned it with
me), or only more insensible, more proof against
shocks ; but it is certain that, like some other English-
men I have known, he has appeared, in delicate cases,
to think I would take a comprehensive view. When
I have inquired into the grounds of this discrimina-
tion in our favour, he has contented himself with
saying, in the British-cursory manner, “ Oh, I don’t
know ; you are different !’’ I remember he remarked
once that our impressions were fresher. ‘And I am
sure that now it was because of my nationality, in
addition to other merits, that he treated me to the
confession I have just alluded to. At least I don’t
suppose he would have gone about saying to people
in general, ‘‘ Her husband will probably die, you
know ; then why shouldn’t I marry Lady Vandeleur? ”’

That was the question which his whole expression
and manner asked of me, and of which, after a
moment, I decided to take no notice. Why shouldn't
he? There was an excellent reason why he shouldn't.
It would just kill Joscelind Bernardstone; that
was why he shouldn't! The idea that he should
be ready to do it frightened me, and, independent
as he might think my point of view, I had no desire
to discuss such abominations. It struck me as an
abomination at this very first moment, and I have

145 L

THE PATH OF DUTY

never wavered in my judgement of it. I am always
glad when I can take the measure of a thing as soon
as I see it; it’s a blessing to feel what we think,
without balancing and comparing. It’s a great rest,
too, and a great luxury. That, as I say, was the
case with the feeling excited in me by this happy
idea of Ambrose Tester’s. Cruel and wanton I
thought it then, cruel and wanton I thought it later,
when it was pressed upon me. I knew there were
many other people that didn’t agree with me, and I
can only hope for them that their conviction was as
quick and positive as mine; it all depends upon
the way a thing strikes one. But I will add to
this another remark. I thought I was nght then,
and I still think I was right; but it strikes me as
a pity that I should have wished so much to be
right. Why couldn’t I be content to be wrong?
to renounce my influence (since I appeared to possess
the mystic article), and let my young friend do as he
liked ? As you observed the situation at Doubleton,
shouldn’t you say it was of a nature to make one
wonder whether, after all, one did render a service
to the younger lady ?

At all events, as I say, I gave no sign to Ambrose
Tester that I understood him, that I guessed what he
wished to come to. He got no satisfaction out of
me that day ; it is very true that he made up for it
later. I expressed regret at Lord Vandeleur’s illness,
inquired into its nature and origin, hoped it wouldn't
prove as grave as might be feared, said I would call
at the house and ask about him, commiserated dis-
creetly her ladyship, and, in short, gave my young
man no chance whatever. He knew that I had
guessed his arriére-pensée, but he let me off for the
moment, for which I was thankful ; either because he
was still ashamed of it, or because he supposed I
was reserving myself for the catastrophe—should it

146

THE PATH OF DUTY

occur. Well, my dear, it did occur, at the end of
ten days. Mr. Tester came to see me twice in that
interval, each time to tell me that poor Vandeleur
was worse ; he had some internal inflammation which,
in nine cases out of ten, is fatal. His wife was all
devotion ; she was with him night and day. I had
the news from other sources as well; I leave you
to imagine whether in London, at the height of the
season, such a situation could fail to be considerably
discussed. To the discussion as yet, however, I
contributed little, and with Ambrose Tester nothing
at all. I was still on my guard. I never admitted
for a moment that it was possible there should be
any change in his plans. By this time, I think, he
had quite ceased to be ashamed of his idea, he was
in a state almost of exultation about it ; but he was
very angry with me for not giving him an opening.
As I look back upon the matter now, there is
something almost amusing in the way we watched
each other—he thinking that I evaded his question
only to torment him (he believed me, or pretended
to believe me, capable of this sort of perversity),
and I determined not to lose ground by betraying
an insight into his state of mind which he might
twist into an expression of sympathy. I wished
to leave my sympathy where I had placed it, with
Lady Emily and her daughter, of whom I continued,
bumping against them at parties, to have some obser-
vation. They gave no signal of alarm; of course
it would have been premature. The girl, I am
sure, had no idea of the existence of a rival. How
they had kept her in the dark I don’t know ; but it
was easy to see she was too much in love to suspect
or to criticise. With Lady Emily it was different ;
she was a woman of charity, but she touched the
world at too many points not to feel its vibrations.
However, the dear little lady planted herself firmly ;

147

THE PATH OF DUTY

to the eye she was still enough. It was not from
Ambrose Tester that I first heard of Lord Vandeleur’s
death ; it was announced, with a quarter of a column
of “ padding,” in the Times. I have always known
the Times was a wonderful journal, but this never
came home to me so much as when it produced a
quarter of a column about Lord Vandeleur. It was
a triumph of word-spinning. If he had carried out
his vocation, if he had been a tailor or a hatter (that’s
how I see him), there might have been something to
say about him. But he missed his vocation, he
missed everything but posthumous honours. I was
so sure Ambrose Tester would come in that afternoon,
and so sure he knew I should expect him, that I
threw over an engagement on purpose. But he didn’t
come in, nor the next day, nor the next. There were
two possible explanations of his absence. One was
that he was giving all his time to consoling Lady
Vandeleur ; the other was that he was giving it all,
as a blind, to Joscelind Bernardstone. Both proved
incorrect, for when he at last turned up he told me he
had been for a week in the country, at his father’s.
Sir Edmund also had been unwell ; but he had pulled
through better than poor Lord Vandeleur. I wondered
at first whether his son had been talking over with
him the question of a change of base; but guessed
in a moment that he had not suffered this alarm. I
don’t think that Ambrose would have spared him
if he had thought it necessary to give him warning ;
but he probably held that his father would have no
ground for complaint so long as he should marry
some one; would have no right to remonstrate if
he simply transferred his contract. Lady Vandeleur
had had two children (whom she had lost), and
might, therefore, have others whom she shouldn’t
lose; that would have been a reply to nice dis-
criminations on Sir Edmund’s part.
148

Vv

In reality what the young man had been doing
was thinking it over beneath his ancestral oaks
and beeches. His countenance showed this—showed
it more than Miss Bernardstone could have liked.
He looked like a man who was crossed, not like a
man who was happy, in love. I was no more disposed
than before to help him out with his plot, but at the
end of ten minutes we were articulately discussing
it. When I say we were, I mean he was; for I sat
before him quite mute, at first, and amazed at the
clearness with which, before his conscience, he had
argued his case. He had persuaded himself that it
was quite a simple matter to throw over poor Joscelind
and keep himself free for the expiration of Lady
Vandeleur’s term of mourning. The deliberations
of an impulsive man sometimes land him in strange
countries. Ambrose Tester confided his plan to me
as a tremendous secret. He professed to wish
immensely to know how it appeared to me, and
whether my woman’s wit couldn’t discover for him
some loophole big enough round, some honourable
way of not keeping faith. Yet at the same time he
seemed not to foresee that I should, of necessity,
be simply horrified. Disconcerted and perplexed (a
little), that he was prepared to find me; but if I
had refused, as yet, to come to his assistance, he
appeared to suppose it was only because of the real

149

THE PATH OF DUTY

difficulty of suggesting to him that perfect pretext of
which he was in want. He evidently counted upon
me, however, for some illuminating proposal, and I
think he would have liked to say to me, “ You have
always pretended to be a great friend of mine ’’—
I hadn’t ; the pretension was all on his side—‘‘ and
now is your chance to show it. Go to Joscelind and
make her feel (women have a hundred ways of doing
that sort of thing) that through Vandeleur’s death
the change in my situation is complete. If she is
the girl I take her for, she will know what to do
in the premises.”

I was not prepared to oblige him to this degree,
and I lost no time in telling him so, after my first
surprise at seeing how definite his purpose had
become. His contention, after all, was very simple.
He had been in love with Lady Vandeleur for years,
and was now more in love with her than ever. There
had been no appearance of her being, within a calcul-
able period, liberated by the death of her husband.
This nobleman was—he didn’t say what just then
(it was too soon)—but he was only forty years old,
and in such health and preservation as to make such
a contingency infinitely remote. Under these circum-
stances, Ambrose had been driven, for the most
worldly reasons—he was ashamed of them, pah !—
into an engagement with a girl he didn’t love, and
didn’t pretend to love. Suddenly the unexpected
occurred; the woman he did love had become
accessible to him, and all the relations of things were
altered. Why shouldn't he alter too >—why shouldn’t
Miss Bernardstone alter, Lady Emily alter, and every
one alter? It would be wrong in him to marry
Joscelind in so changed a world—a moment’s con-
sideration would certainly assure me of that. He
could no longer carry out his part of the bargain,
and the transaction must stop before it went any

150

THE PATH OF DUTY

further. If Joscelind knew, she would be the first to
recognise this, and the thing for her now was to know.

‘“‘ Go and tell her, then, if you are so sure of it,’ I
said. ‘‘ I wonder you have put it off so many days.”

He looked at me with a melancholy eye. “ Of
course I know it’s beastly awkward.”’

It was beastly awkward certainly ; there I could
quite agree with him, and this was the only sympathy
he extracted from me. It was impossible to be less
helpful, less merciful, to an embarrassed young man
than I was on that occasion. But other occasions
followed very quickly, on which Mr. Tester renewed
his appeal with greater eloquence. He assured me
that it was torture to be with his intended, and every
hour that he didn’t break off committed him more
deeply and more fatally. I repeated only once my
previous question—asked him only once why then he
didn’t tell her he had changed his mind. The inquiry
was idle, was even unkind, for my young man was
in a very tight place. He didn’t tell her, simply
because he couldn’t, in spite of the anguish of feeling
that his chance to right himself was rapidly passing
away. When I asked him if Joscelind appeared to
have guessed nothing he broke out, ‘‘ How in the
world can she guess when I am so kind to her? I
am so sorry for her, poor little wretch, that I can’t
help being nice to her. And from the moment I
am nice to her she thinks it’s all nght.”

I could see perfectly what he meant by that, and
I liked him more for this little generosity than I dis-
liked him for his nefarious scheme. In fact, I didn’t
dislike him at all when I saw what an influence my
judgement would have on him. I very soon gave
him the full benefit of it. I had thought over his
case with all the advantages of his own presentation
of it, and it was impossible for me to see how he could
decently get rid of the girl. That, as I have said, had

151

THE PATH OF DUTY

been my original opinion, and quickened reflexion
only confirmed it. As I have also said, I hadn't
in the least recommended him to become engaged ;
but once he had done so I recommended him to abide
by it. It was all very well being in love with Lady
Vandeleur ; he might be in love with her, but he
hadn’t promised to marry her. It was all very well
not being in love with Miss Bernardstone; but, as
it happened, he had promised to marry her, and in
my country a gentleman was supposed to keep such
promises. If it was a question of keeping them only
so long as was convenient where would any of us be ?
I assure you I became very eloquent and moral—yes,
moral, I maintain the word, in spite of your perhaps
thinking (as you are very capable of doing) that I
ought to have advised him in just the opposite sense.
It was not a question of love, but of marriage, for
he had never promised to love poor Joscelind. It
was useless his saying it was dreadful to marry
without love ; he knew that he thought it, and the
people he lived with thought it, nothing of the kind.
Half his friends had married on those terms. ‘“ Yes,
and a pretty sight their private life presented ! ’’
That might be, but it was the first time I had ever
heard him say it. A fortnight before he had been
quite ready to do like the others. I knew what I
thought, and I suppose I expressed it with some
clearness, for my arguments made him still more
uncomfortable, unable as he was either to accept
them or to act in contempt of them. Why he should
have cared so much for my opinion is a mystery I
can’t elucidate ; to understand my little story you
must simply swallow it. That he did care is proved
by the exasperation with which he suddenly broke
out, “‘ Well, then, as I understand you, what you
recommend me is to marry Miss Bernardstone, and
carry on an intrigue with Lady Vandeleur ! ”’
152

THE PATH OF DUTY

He knew perfectly that I recommended nothing
of the sort, and he must have been very angry to
indulge in this boutade. He told me that other
people didn’t think as I did—that every one was of
the opinion that between a woman he didn’t love
and a woman he had adored for years it was a plain
moral duty not to hesitate. ‘‘ Don’t hesitate, then !”’
I exclaimed ; but I didn’t get rid of him with this,
for he returned to the charge more than once (he came
to me so often that I thought he must neglect both
his other alternatives), and let me know again that
the voice of society was quite against my view.
You will doubtless be surprised at such an intimation
that he had taken “society” into his confidence,
and wonder whether he went about asking people
whether they thought he might back out. I can’t
tell you exactly, but I know that for some weeks his
dilemma was a great deal talked about. His friends
perceived he was at the parting of the roads, and
many of them had no difficulty in saying which one
they would take. Some observers thought he ought
to do nothing, to leave things as they were. Others
took very high ground and discoursed upon the
sanctity of love and the wickedness of really deceiving
the girl, as that would be what it would amount to
(if he should lead her to the altar). Some held that
it was too late to escape, others maintained that it
is never too late. Some thought Miss Bernardstone
very much to be pitied; some reserved their com-
passion for Ambrose Tester; others, still, lavished
it upon Lady Vandeleur. The prevailing opinion, I
think, was that he ought to obey the promptings of
his heart—London cares so much for the heart!
Or is it that London is simply ferocious, and always
prefers the spectacle that is more entertaining ?
As it would prolong the drama for the young man
to throw over Miss Bernardstone, there was a

153

THE PATH OF DUTY

considerable readiness to see the poor girl sacrificed.
She was like a Christian maiden in the Roman arena.
That is what Ambrose Tester meant by telling me
that public opinion was on his side. I don’t think he
chattered about his quandary, but people, knowing
his situation, guessed what was going on in his mind,
and he, on his side, guessed what they said. London
discussions might as well go on in the whispering-
gallery of St. Paul’s.

I could, of course, do only one thing—I could
but reaffirm my conviction that the Roman attitude,
as I may call it, was cruel, was falsely sentimental.
This naturally didn’t help him as he wished to be
helped—didn’t remove the obstacle to his marrying
in a year or two Lady Vandeleur. Yet he continued
to look to me for inspiration—I must say it at the
cost of making him appear a very feeble-minded
gentleman. There was a moment when I thought
him capable of an oblique movement, of temporising
with a view to escape. If he succeeded in postponing
his marriage long enough, the Bernardstones would
throw him over, and I suspect that for a day he
entertained the idea of fixing this responsibility on
them. But he was too honest and too generous to
do so for longer, and his destiny was staring him in
the face when an accident gave him a momentary
relief. General Bernardstone died, after an illness
as sudden and short as that which had carried off
Lord Vandeleur ; his wife and daughter were plunged
into mourning and immediately retired into the
country. A week later we heard that the girl’s
marriage would be put off for several months—partly
on account of her mourning and partly because her
mother, whose only companion she had now become,
could not bear to part with her at the time originally
fixed and actually so near. People of course looked
at each other—said it was the beginning of the end,

154

THE PATH OF DUTY

a “‘dodge’’ of Ambrose Tester’s. I wonder they
didn’t accuse him of poisoning the poor old general.
I know to a certainty that he had nothing to do with
the delay, that the proposal came from Lady Emily,
who, in her bereavement, wished, very naturally,
to keep a few months longer the child she was going
to lose for ever. It must be said, in justice to her
prospective son-in-law, that he was capable either of
resigning himself or of frankly (with however many
blushes) telling Joscelind he couldn’t keep his agree-
ment, but was not capable of trying to wriggle out
of his difficulty. The plan of simply telling Joscelind
he couldn’t—this was the one he had fixed upon as
the best, and this was the one of which I remarked
to him that it had a defect which should be counted
against its advantages. The defect was that it
would kill Joscelind on the spot.

I think he believed me, and his believing me
made this unexpected respite very welcome to him.
There was no knowing what might happen in the
interval, and he passed a large part of it in looking
for an issue. And yet, at the same time, he kept up
the usual forms with the girl whom in his heart he had
renounced. I was told more than once (for I had
lost sight of the pair during the summer and autumn)
that these forms were at times very casual, that he
neglected Miss Bernardstone most flagrantly, and
had quite resumed his old intimacy with Lady
Vandeleur. I don’t exactly know what was meant
by this, for she spent the first three months of her
widowhood in complete seclusion, in her own old
house in Norfolk, where he certainly was not staying
with her. I believe he stayed some time, for the
partridge-shooting, at a place a few miles off. It
came to my ears that if Miss Bernardstone didn’t
take the hint it was because she was determined to
stick to him through thick and thin. She never

155

THE PATH OF DUTY

offered to let him off, and I was sure she never would :
but I was equally sure that, strange as it may appear,
he had not ceased to be nice to her. I have never
exactly understood why he didn’t hate her, and I
am convinced that he was not a comedian in his
conduct to her—he was only a good fellow. I have
spoken of the satisfaction that Sir Edmund took
in his daughter-in-law that was to be; he delighted
in looking at her, longed for her when she was out
of his sight, and had her, with her mother, staying
with him in the country for weeks together. If
Ambrose was not so constantly at her side as he
might have been, this deficiency was covered by his
father’s devotion to her, by her appearance of being
already one of the family. Mr. Tester was away as
he might be away if they were already married. -

156

VI

In October I met him at Doubleton ; we spent three
days there together. He was enjoying his respite,
as he didn’t scruple to tell me, and he talked to me
a great deal—as usual—about Lady Vandeleur. He
didn’t mention Joscelind, except by implication, in
this assurance of how much he valued his weeks of
grace.

“Do you mean to say that, under the circum-
stances, Lady Vandeleur is willing to marry you ? ”’

I made this inquiry more expressively, doubtless,
than before ; for when we had talked of the matter
then he had naturally spoken of her consent as a
simple contingency. It was contingent upon the
lapse of the first months of her bereavement ; it was
not a question he could begin to press a few days
after her husband’s death.

‘‘ Not immediately, of course, but if I wait I think
so.” That, I remember, was his answer.

“ If you wait till you get nid of that poor girl, of
course.”

‘“‘ She knows nothing about that—it’s none of her
business.”

‘‘Do you mean to say she doesn’t know you are
engaged ? ”’

‘* How should she know it, how should she believe
it, when she sees how I love her?” the young man
exclaimed ; but he admitted afterwards that he had

157

THE PATH OF DUTY

not deceived her, and that she rendered full justice
to the motives that had determined him. He thought
he could answer for it that she would marry him some
day or other.

“Then she is a very cruel woman,” I said, “‘ and
I should like, if you please, to hear no more about
her.” He protested against this, and, a month later,
brought her up again, for a purpose. The purpose,
you will see, was a very strange one. I had then come
back to town; it was the early part of December.
I supposed he was hunting, with his own hounds ;
but he appeared one afternoon in my drawing-room
and told me I should do him a great favour if I
would go and see Lady Vandeleur.

‘“Go and see her? where do you mean, in Nor-
folk?”

‘“‘She has come up to London—didn’t you know
it? She has a lot of business. She will be kept here
till Christmas ; I wish you would go.”

“Why should I go?” I asked. “‘ Won’t you be
kept here till Christmas too, and isn’t that company
enough for her ? ”’

“Upon my word, you are cruel,” he said, ‘‘ and
it’s a great shame of you, when a man is trying to
do his duty and is behaving like a saint.’’

“Is that what you call saintly, spending all your
time with Lady Vandeleur? I will tell you whom I
think a saint, if you would like to know.”

“You needn’t tell me, I know it better than you.
I haven’t a word to say against her; only she is
stupid and hasn't any perceptions. If I am stopping
a bit in London you don’t understand why ; it’s as
if you hadn’t any perceptions either! If I am here
for a few days I know what I am about.”

“Why should I understand ? ” I asked—not very
candidly, because I should have been glad to. ‘“ It’s
your own affair, you know what you are about,

158

THE PATH OF DUTY

as you say, and of course you have counted the
cost.”

‘““What cost do you mean? It’s a pretty cost,
I can tell you.” And then he tried to explain—if I
would only enter into it, and not be so suspicious.
He was in London for the express purpose of breaking
off.

“ Breaking off what—your engagement ? ”’

“No, no, damn my engagement—the other thing.
My acquaintance, my relations ss

‘Your intimacy with Lady Van——?” It was
not very gentle, but I believe I burst out laughing.
“Tf this is the way you break off, pray, what would
you do to keep up ? ”’

He flushed, and looked both foolish and angry, for
of course it was not very difficult to see my point.
But he was—in a very clumsy manner of his own—
trying to cultivate a good conscience, and he was
getting no credit for it. “‘I suppose I may be
allowed to look at her! It’s a matter we have to
talk over. One doesn’t drop such a friend in half an
hour.”

“One doesn’t drop her at all, unless one has the
strength to make a sacrifice.”

“It’s easy for you to talk of sacrifice. You don’t
know what she is!” my visitor cried.

“I think I know what she is not. She is not a
friend, as you call her, if she encourages you in the
wrong, if she doesn’t help you. No, I have no
patience with her,” I declared; ‘‘ I don’t like her,
and I won't go to see her! ”

Mr. Tester looked at me a moment, as if he were
too vexed to trust himself to speak. He had to
make an effort not to say something rude. That
effort, however, he was capable of making, and
though he held his hat as if he were going to walk
out of the house, he ended by staying, by putting it

159

THE PATH OF DUTY

down again, by leaning his head, with his elbows on
his knees, in his hands, and groaning out that he had
never heard of anything so impossible, and that he
was the most wretched man in England. I was very
sorry for him, and of course I told him so; but
privately I didn’t think he stood up to his duty as
he ought. I said to him, however, that if he would
give me his word of honour that he would not
abandon Miss Bernardstone, there was no trouble I
wouldn’t take to be of use to him. I didn’t think
Lady Vandeleur was behaving well. He must allow
me to repeat that ; but if going to see her would give
him any pleasure (of course there was no question of
pleasure for her) I would go fifty times. I couldn’t
imagine how it would help him, but I would do it,
as I would do anything else he asked me. He didn’t
give me his word of honour, but he said quietly,
“J shall go straight ; you needn’t be afraid’ ; and
as he spoke there was honour enough in his face.
This left an opening, of course, for another cata-
strophe. There might be further postponements, and
poor Lady Emily, indignant for the first time in her
life, might declare that her daughter’s situation had
become intolerable, and that they withdrew from the
engagement. But this was too odious a chance, and
I accepted Mr. Tester’s assurance. He told me that
the good I could do by going to see Lady Vandeleur
was that it would cheer her up, in that dreary, big
house in Upper Brook Street, where she was absolutely
alone, with horrible overalls on the furniture, and
newspapers — actually newspapers—on the mirrors.
She was seeing no one, there was no one to see; but
he knew she would see me. I asked him if she knew,
then, he was to speak to me of coming, and whether
I might allude to him, whether it was not too delicate.
I shall never forget his answer to this, nor the tone
in which he made it, blushing a little and looking
160

THE PATH OF DUTY

away. ‘“‘Allude tome? Rather!” It was not the
most fatuous speech I had ever heard; it had the
effect of being the most modest ; and it gave me an
odd idea, and especially a new one, of the condition
in which, at any time, one might be destined to find
Lady Vandeleur. If she, too, were engaged in a
struggle with her conscience (in this light they were
an edifying pair!) it had perhaps changed her con-
siderably, made her more approachable; and I re-
flected, ingeniously, that it probably had a humanising
effect upon her. Ambrose Tester didn’t go away after
I had told him that I would comply with his request.
He lingered, fidgeting with his stick and gloves, and
I perceived that he had more to tell me, and that the
real reason why he wished me to go and see Lady
Vandeleur was not that she had newspapers on her
mirrors. He came out with it at last, for that
‘“Rather!’’ of his (with the way I took it) had
broken the ice.

‘You say you don’t think she behaves well ’”’ (he
naturally wished to defend her). “‘ But I daresay
you don’t understand her position. Perhaps you
wouldn’t behave any better in her place.”’

“It’s very good of you to imagine me there!” I
remarked, laughing.

“It’s awkward for me to say. One doesn’t want
to dot one’s 1’s to that extent.”’

“She would be delighted to marry you. That’s
not such a mystery.”’

“Well, she likes me awfully,’’ Mr. Tester said,
looking like a handsome child. ‘It’s not all on one
side, it’s on both. That’s the difficulty.”

‘You mean she won't let you go ?—she holds you
fast ?”’

But the poor fellow had, in delicacy, said enough,
and at this he jumped up. He stood there a moment,
smoothing his hat ; then he broke out again. “‘ Please

161 M

THE PATH OF DUTY

do this. Let her know—make her feel. You can
bring it in, you know.’”’ And here he paused, em-
barrassed.

“What can I bring in, Mr. Tester? That’s the
difficulty, as you say.”’

“What you told me the other day. You know.
What you have told me before.”’

“What I have told you. . .?”

“ That it would put an end to joxsina’ ! If you
can’t work round to it, what’s the good of being—
you?” And with this tribute to my powers he took
his departure.

162

Vil

It was all very well of him to be so flattering, but
I really didn’t see myself talking in that manner to
Lady Vandeleur. I wondered why he didn’t give her
this information himself, and what particular value
it could have as coming from me. Then I said to
myself that of course he had mentioned to her the
truth I had impressed upon him (and which by this
time he had evidently taken home), but that to
enable it to produce its full effect upon Lady Vande-
leur the further testimony of a witness’ more in-
dependent was required. There was nothing for me
but to go and see her, and I went the next day,
fully conscious that to execute Mr. Tester’s com-
mission I should have either to find myself very
brave or to find her strangely confidential ; and fully
prepared, also, not to be admitted. But she received
me, and the house in Upper Brook Street was as
dismal as Ambrose Tester had represented it. The
December fog (the afternoon was very dusky) seemed
to pervade the muffled rooms, and her ladyship’s
pink lamp-light to waste itself in the brown atmo-
sphere. He had mentioned to me that the heir to
the title (a cousin of her husband), who had left her
unmolested for several months, was now taking
possession of everything, so that what kept her in
town was the business of her “turning out,” and
certain formalities connected with her dower. This
163

THE PATH OF DUTY

was very ample, and the large provision made for her
included the London house. She was very gracious
on this occasion, but she certainly had remarkably
little to say. Still, she was different, or, at any rate
(having taken that hint), I saw her differently. I
saw, indeed, that I had never quite done her justice,
that I had exaggerated her stiffness, attributed to her
a kind of conscious grandeur which was in reality
much more an accident of her appearance, of her
figure, than a quality of her character. Her appear-
ance is as grand as you know, and on the day I speak
of, in her simplified mourning, under those vaguely-
gleaming lambris, she looked as beautiful as a great
white lily. She is very simple and good-natured ;
she will never make an advance, but she will always
respond to one, and I saw, that evening, that the
way to get on with her was to treat her as if she
were not too imposing. I saw also that, with her
nun-like robes and languid eyes, she was a woman
who might be immensely in love. All the same, we
hadn’t much to say to each other. She remarked
that it was very kind of me to come, that she wondered
how I could endure London at that season, that she
had taken a drive and found the Park too dreadful,
that she would ring for some more tea if I didn’t like
what she had given me. Our conversation wandered,
stumbling a little, among these platitudes, but no
allusion was made on either side to Ambrose Tester.
Nevertheless, as I have said, she was different, though
it was not till I got home that I phrased to myself
what I had detected.

Then, recalling her white face, and the deeper,
stranger expression of her beautiful eyes, I entertained
myself with the idea that she was under the influence
of ‘‘ suppressed exaltation.” The more I thought of
her the more she appeared to me npt natural ; wound
up, as it were, to a calmness beneath which there was

164

THE PATH OF DUTY

a deal of agitation. This would have been nonsense
if I had not, two days afterwards, received a note
from her which struck me as an absolutely “‘ exalted ”’
production. Not superficially, of course; to the
casual eye it would have been perfectly commonplace.
But this was precisely its peculiarity, that Lady
Vandeleur should have written me a note which had
no apparent point save that she should like to see me
again, a desire for which she did succeed in assigning
a reason. She reminded me that she was paying no
calls, and she hoped I wouldn’t stand on ceremony,
but come in very soon again, she had enjoyed my
visit so much. We had not been on note-writing
terms, and there was nothing in that visit to alter
our relations; moreover, six months before, she
would not have dreamed of addressing me in that
way. I was doubly convinced, therefore, that she
was passing through a crisis—that she was not in
her normal equilibrium. Mr. Tester had not re-
appeared since the occasion I have described at length,
and I thought it possible he had been capable of the
bravery of leaving town. I had, however, no fear of
meeting him in Upper Brook Street ; for, according
to my theory of his relations with Lady Vandeleur
he regularly spent his evenings with her, it being
clear to me that they must dine together. I could
answer her note only by going to see her the next day,
when I found abundant confirmation of that idea
about the crisis. I must confess to you in advance
that I have never really understood her behaviour—
never understood why she should have taken to me
so suddenly—with whatever reserves, and however
much by implication merely—into her confidence.
All I can say is that this is an accident to which one
is exposed with English people, who, in my opinion,
and contrary to common report, are the most demon-
strative, the most expansive, the most gushing in the
165

THE PATH OF DUTY

world. I think she felt rather isolated at this moment,
and she had never had many intimates of her own
sex. That sex, as a general thing, disapproved of
her proceedings during the last few months, held that
she was making Joscelind Bernardstone suffer too
cruelly. She possibly felt the weight of this censure,
and at all events was not above wishing some one to
know that, whatever injury had fallen upon the girl
to whom Mr. Tester had so stupidly engaged himself,
had not, so far as she was concerned, been wantonly
inflicted. I was there, I was more or less aware of
her situation, and I would do as well as any one else.

She seemed really glad to see me, but she was very
nervous. Nevertheless, nearly half an hour elapsed,
and I was still wondering whether she had sent for
me only to discuss the question of how a London
house whose appointments had the stamp of a de-
based period (it had been thought very handsome in
1850) could be “done up” without being made
esthetic. I forget what satisfaction I gave her on
this point; I was asking myself how I could work
round in the manner prescribed by Joscelind’s in-
tended. At the last, however, to my extreme sur-
prise, Lady Vandeleur herself relieved me of this
effort.

“T think you know Mr. Tester rather well,” she
remarked abruptly, irrelevantly, and with a face more
conscious of the bearings of things than any I had
ever seen her wear. On my confessing to such an
acquaintance, she mentioned that Mr. Tester (who
had been in London a few days—perhaps I had seen
him) had left town and wouldn’t come back for several
weeks. This, for the moment, seemed to be all she
had to communicate ; but she sat looking at me from
the corner of her sofa as if she wished me to profit
in some way by the opportunity she had given me.
Did she want help from outside, this proud, inscrutable

166

THE PATH OF DUTY

woman, and was she reduced to throwing out signals
of distress? Did she wish to be protected against
herself—applauded for such efforts as she had already
made? I didn’t rush forward, I was not precipitate,
for I felt that now, surely, I should be able at my
convenience to execute my commission. What con-
cerned me was not to prevent Lady Vandeleur’s
marrying Mr. Tester, but to prevent Mr. Tester’s
marrying her. In a few moments—with the same
irrelevance—she announced to me that he wished to,
and asked whether I didn’t know it. I saw that this
was my chance, and instantly with extreme energy,
I exclaimed :

‘‘ Ah, for heaven’s sake, don’t listen to him! It
would kill Miss Bernardstone | ”’

The tone of my voice made her colour a little, and
she repeated, ‘‘ Miss Bernardstone ? ”

“The girl he is engaged to—or has been—don’t
*you know? Excuse me, I thought every one knew.”

“‘ Of course I know he is dreadfully entangled. He
was fairly hunted down.”” Lady Vandeleur was silent
a moment, and then she added, with a strange smile,
“ Fancy, in such a situation, his wanting to marry
me!”

“Fancy!” I replied. I was so struck with the
oddity of her telling me her secrets that for the
moment my indignation did not come to a head—
my indignation, I mean, at her accusing poor Lady
Emily (and even the girl herself) of having ‘‘ trapped ”
our friend. Later I said to myself that I supposed
she was within her literal right in abusing her rival,
if she was trying sincerely to give him up. “I don’t
know anything about his having been hunted down,”
I said; ‘“ but this I do know, Lady Vandeleur, I
assure you, that if he should throw Joscelind over she
would simply go out like that!’’ And I snapped
my fingers. .

167

THE PATH OF DUTY

Lady Vandeleur listened to this serenely enough ;
she tried at least to take the air of a woman who
has no need of new arguments. ‘“‘ Do you know her
very well?” she asked, as if she had been struck
by my calling Miss Bernardstone by her Christian
name.

“Well enough to like her very much.” I was
going to say “to pity her’”’; but I thought better
of it.

‘‘ She must be a person of very little spirit. Ifa
man were to jilt me, I don’t think I should go out!”
cried her ladyship, with a laugh.

“‘ Nothing is more probable than that she has not
your courage or your wisdom. She may be weak,
but she is passionately in love with him.”

I looked straight into Lady Vandeleur’s eyes as I
said this, and I was conscious that it was a tolerably
good description of my hostess.

* Do you think she would really die ? ’’ she asked '
in a moment.

‘* Die as if one should stab her with a knife. Some
people don’t believe in broken hearts,” I continued.
“T didn’t till I knew Joscelind Bernardstone ; then
I felt that she had one that wouldn’t be proof.”

“One ought to live—one ought always to live,”
said Lady Vandeleur ; ‘‘ and always to hold up one’s
head.”’

“‘ Ah, I suppose that one oughtn’t to feel at all, if
one wishes to be a great success.”

“‘ What do you call a great success ? ”’ she asked.

“‘ Never having occasion to be pitied.”

‘ Being pitied ? That must be odious ! ” she said ;
and I saw that though she might wish for admira-
tion, she would never wish for sympathy. Then, in
a moment, she added that men, in her opinion, were
very base—a remark that was deep, but not, I think,
very honest ; that is, in sq far as the purpose of it

168

THE PATH OF DUTY

had been to give me the idea that Ambrose Tester
had done nothing but press her, and she had done
nothing but resist. They were very odd, the dis-
crepancies in the statements of each of this pair ;
but it must be said for Lady Vandeleur that now that
she had made up her mind (as I believed she had) to
sacrifice herself, she really persuaded herself that she
had not had a moment of weakness. She quite un-
bosomed herself, and I fairly assisted at her crisis.
It appears that she had a conscience—very much so,
and even a high ideal of duty. She represented her-
self as moving heaven and earth to keep Ambrose
Tester up to the mark, and you would never have
guessed from what she told me that she had enter-
tained, ever so faintly, the idea of marrying him. I
am sure this was a dreadful perversion, but I forgave
it on the score of that exaltation of which I have
spoken. The things she said, and the way she said
them, come back to me, and I thought that if she
looked as handsome as that when she preached virtue
to Mr. Tester, it was no wonder he liked the sermon
to be going on perpetually.

““T daresay you know what old friends we are ;
but that doesn’t make any difference, does it?
Nothing would induce me to marry him—TI haven't
the smallest intention of marrying again. It is not
a time for me to think of marrying, before his lordship
has been dead six months. The girl is nothing to
me; I know nothing about her, and I don’t wish
to know; but I should be very, very sorry if she
were unhappy. He is the best friend I ever had, but
I don’t see that that’s any reason I should marry
him, do you?”’ Lady Vandeleur appealed to me,
but without waiting for my answers, asking advice
in spite of herself, and then remembering it was
beneath her dignity to appear to be in need of it.
“‘T have told him that if he doesn’t act properly I

169

THE PATH OF DUTY

shall never speak to him again. She’s a charming
girl, every one says, and I have no doubt she will
make him perfectly happy. Men don’t feel things
like women, I think, and if they are coddled and
flattered they forget the rest. I have no doubt she
is very sufficient for all that. For me, at any rate,
once I see a thing in a certain way, I must abide
by that. I think people are so dreadful—they do
such horrible things. They don’t seem to think what
one’s duty may be. I don’t know whether you think
much about that, but really one must at times,
don’t you think so? Every one is so selfish, and
then, when they have never made an effort or a
sacrifice themselves, they come to you and talk such
a lot of hypocrisy. I know so much better than any
one else whether [ should marry or not. But I don’t
mind telling you that I don’t see why I should. I
am not in such a bad position—with my liberty and
a decent maintenance.”

In this manner she rambled on, gravely and
communicatively, contradicting herself at times ;
not talking fast (she never did), but dropping one
simple sentence, with an interval, after the other,
with a certain richness of voice which always was
part of the charm of her presence. She wished
to be convinced against herself, and it was a comfort
to her to hear herself argue. I was quite willing
to be part of the audience, though I had to confine
myself to very superficial remarks ; for when I had
sald the event I feared would kill Miss Bernardstone
I had said everything that was open to me. [I had
nothing to do with Lady Vandeleur’s marrying,
apart from that. I probably disappointed her.
She had caught a glimpse of the moral beauty of
self-sacrifice, of a certain ideal of conduct (I imagine
it was rather new to her), and would have been glad
to elicit from me, as a person of some experience of

170

THE PATH OF DUTY

life, an assurance that such joys are not unsubstantial.
I had no wish to wind her up to a spiritual ecstasy from
which she would inevitably descend again, and I let
her deliver herself according to her humour, without
attempting to answer for it that she would find
renunciation the road to bliss. I believed that if
she should give up Mr. Tester she would suffer accord-
ingly ; but I didn’t think that a reason for not giving
him up. Before I left her she said to me that nothing
would induce her to do anything that she didn’t
think right. ‘‘ It would be no pleasure to me, don’t
you see? I should be always thinking that another
way would have been better. Nothing would induce
me—nothing, nothing ! ”’

I7I

VIII

SHE protested too much, perhaps, but the event
seemed to show that she was in earnest. I have
described these two first visits of mine in some
detail, but they were not the only ones I paid her.
I saw her several times again, before she left town,
and we became intimate, as London intimacies are
measured. She ceased to protest (to my relief, for
it made me nervous), she was very gentle, and gracious,
and reasonable, and there was something in the way
she looked and spoke that told me that for the present
she found renunciation its own reward. So far, my
scepticism was put to shame; her spiritual ecstasy
maintained itself. If I could have foreseen then that
it would maintain itself till the present hour I should
have felt that Lady Vandeleur’s moral nature is
finer indeed than mine. I heard from her that Mr.
Tester remained at his father’s, and that Lady Emily
and her daughter were also there. The day for the
wedding had been fixed, and the preparations were
going rapidly forward. Meanwhile—she didn’t tell
me, but I gathered it from things she dropped—she
was in almost daily correspondence with the young
man. I thought this a strange concomitant of his
bridal arrangements; but apparently, henceforth,
they were bent on convincing each other that the
torch of virtue lighted their steps, and they couldn’t
convince each other too much. She intimated to
172

THE PATH OF DUTY

me that she had now effectually persuaded him
(always by letter) that he would fail terribly if he
should try to found his happiness on an injury done
to another, and that of course she could never be
happy (in a union with him) with the sight of his
wretchedness before her. That a good deal of
correspondence should be required to elucidate this
is perhaps after all not remarkable. One day, when
I was sitting with her (it was just before she left
town), she suddenly burst into tears. Before we
parted I said to her that there were several women
in London I liked very much—that was common
enough—but for her I had a positive respect, and that
wasrare. My respect continues still, and it sometimes
makes me furious.

About the middle of January Ambrose Tester
reappeared in town. He told me he came to bid
me good-bye. He was going to be beheaded. It
was no use saying that old relations would be the
same after a man was married; they would be
different, everything would be different. I had
wanted him to marry, and now I should see how
I liked it. He didn’t mention that I had also wanted
him not to marry, and I was sure that if Lady Vande-
leur had become his wife she would have been a much
greater impediment to our harmless friendship than
Joscelind Bernardstone would ever be. It took
me but a short time to observe that he was in very
much the same condition as Lady Vandeleur. He
was finding how sweet it is to renounce, hand in
hand with one we love. Upon him, too, the peace
of the Lord had descended. He spoke of his father’s
delight at the nuptials being so near at hand ; at the
festivities that would take place in Dorsetshire when
he should bring home his bride. The only allusion
he made to what we had talked of the last time
we were together was to exclaim suddenly, ‘‘ How

173

THE PATH OF DUTY

can I tell you how easy she has made it? She is
so sweet, sonoble! She really is a perfect creature ! ”’
I took for granted that he was talking of his future
wife, but in a moment, as we were at cross-purposes,
perceived that he meant Lady Vandeleur. This
seemed to me really ominous—it stuck in my mind
after he had left me. I was half tempted to write
him a note, to say, ‘“‘ There is, after all, perhaps,
something worse than your jilting Miss Bernardstone ;
and that is the danger that your rupture with Lady
Vandeleur may become more of a bond than your
marrying her would have been. For heaven’s sake,
let your sacrifice be a sacrifice ; keep it in its proper
place |”

Of course I didn’t write ; even the slight responsi-
bility I had already incurred began to frighten me,
and I never saw Mr. Tester again till he was the
husband of Joscelind Bernardstone. They have now
been married some four years; they have two
children, the elder of whom is, as he should be, a
boy. Sir Edmund waited till his grandson had made
good his place in the world, and then, feeling it was
safe, he quietly, genially, surrendered his trust. He
died, holding the hand of his daughter-in-law, and
giving it doubtless a pressure which was an injunction
to be brave. I don’t know what he thought of the
success of his plan for his son; but perhaps, after
all, he saw nothing amiss, for Joscelind is the last
woman in the world to have troubled him with her
sorrows. From him, no doubt, she successfully con-
cealed that bewilderment on which I have touched.
You see I speak of her sorrows as if they were a
matter of common recognition ; certain it is that any
one who meets her must see that she doesn’t pass her
life in joy. Lady Vandeleur, as you know, has never
married again ; she is still the most beautiful widow
in England. She enjoys the esteem of every one, as

174

THE PATH OF DUTY

well as the approbation of her conscience, for every
one knows the sacrifice she made, knows that she
was even more in love with Sir Ambrose than he
was with her. She goes out again, of course, as of
old, and she constantly meets the baronet and his
wife. She is supposed to be even “ very nice”’ to
Lady Tester, and she certainly treats her with exceed-
ing civility. But you know (or perhaps you don’t
know) all the deadly things that, in London, may lie
beneath that method. I don’t in the least mean
that Lady Vandeleur has any deadly intentions ;
she is a very good woman, and I am sure that in her
heart she thinks she lets poor Joscelind off very
easily. But the result of the whole situation is
that Joscelind is in dreadful fear of her, for how can
she help seeing that she has a very peculiar power
over her husband? There couldn’t have been a
better occasion for observing the three together
(if together it may be called, when Lady Tester is
so completely outside) than those two days of ours
at Doubleton. That’s a house where they have met
more than once before ; I think she and Sir Ambrose
like it. By “‘she’’ I mean, as he used to mean,
Lady Vandeleur. You saw how Lady Tester was
absolutely white with uneasiness. What can she do
when she meets everywhere the implication that if
two people in our time have distinguished themselves
for their virtue, it is her husband and Lady Vande-
leur? It is my impression that this pair are exceed-
ingly happy. His marriage has made a difference,
and I see him much less frequently and less intimately.
But when I meet him I notice in him a kind of emana-
tion of quiet bliss. Yes, they are certainly in felicity,
they have trod the clouds together, they have soared
into the blue, and they wear in their faces the glory
of those altitudes. They encourage, they cheer,
inspire, sustain each other; remind each other that

175

THE PATH OF DUTY

they have chosen the better part. Of course they
have to meet for this purpose, and their interviews
are filled, I am sure, with its sanctity. He holds
up his head, as a man may who on a very critical
occasion behaved like a perfect gentleman. It is
only poor Joscelind that droops. Haven’t I explained
to you now why she doesn’t understand ?

A DAY OF DAYS

77

Mr. HERBERT Moore, a gentleman of the highest
note in the scientific world, and a childless widower,
finding himself at last unable to reconcile his sedentary
habits with the management of a household, had
invited his only sister to come and superintend his
domestic affairs. Miss Adela Moore had assented the
more willingly to his proposal as by her mother’s
death she had recently been left without a formal
protector. She was twenty-five years of age, and
was a very active member of what she and her friends
called society. She was almost equally at home in
the best company of three great cities, and she had
encountered most of the adventures which await a
young girl on the threshold of life. She had become
rather hastily and imprudently engaged, but she had
eventually succeeded in disengaging herself. She had
spent a summer or two in Europe, and she had made
a voyage to Cuba with a dear friend in the last stage
of consumption, who had died at the hotel in the
Havana. Although by no means perfectly beautiful
in person she was yet thoroughly pleasing, rejoicing
in what young ladies are fond of calling an giv; that
is, she was tall and slender, with a long neck, a low
forehead, and a handsome nose. Even after six
years of the best company, too, she still had excellent
manners. She was, moreover, mistress of a very
pretty little fortune, and was accounted clever with-
out detriment to her amiability and amiable without
detriment to her wit. These facts, as the reader will

179

A DAY OF DAYS

allow, might have ensured her the very best prospects ;
but he has seen that she had found herself willing to
forfeit her prospects and bury herself in the country.
It seemed to her that she had seen enough of the
world and of human nature, and that a period of
seclusion might yield a fine refreshment. She had
begun to suspect that for a girl of her age she was
unduly old and wise—and, what is more, to suspect
that others suspected as much. A great observer of
life and manners, so far as her opportunities went,
she conceived that it behoved her to organise the
results of her observation into principles of conduct
and belief. She was becoming—so she argued—too
impersonal, too critical, too intelligent, top contem-
plative, too just. A woman had no business to be
so just. The society of nature, of the great expansive
skies and the primeval woods, would check the
morbid development of her brain-power. She would
spend her time in the fields and merely vegetate ;
walk and ride, and read the old-fashioned books in
Herbert’s library.

She found her brother established in a very pretty
house, at about a mile’s distance from the nearest
town, and at about six miles’ distance from another
town, the seat of a small but ancient college, before
which he delivered a weekly lecture. She had seen
so little of him of late years that his acquaintance
was almost to make; but there were no barriers to
break down. Herbert Moore was one of the simplest
and least aggressive of men, and one of the most
patient and conscientious of students. He had had
a vague notion that Adela was a young woman of
extravagant pleasures, and that, somehow, on her
arrival, his house would be overrun with the train of
her attendant revellers. It was not until after they
had been six months together that he became aware
that his sister led almost an ascetic life. By the

180

A DAY OF DAYS

time six months more had passed Adela had recovered
a delightful sense of youth and naiveté. She learned,
under her brother’s tuition, to walk—nay, to climb,
for there were great hills in the neighbourhood—to
ride and to botanise. At the end of a year, in the
month of August, she received a visit from an old
friend, a girl of her own age, who had been spending
July at a watering-place, and who was now about to
be married. Adela had begun to fear that she had
declined into an almost irreclaimable rusticity and
had rubbed off the social facility, the ‘‘ knowledge of
the world ”’ for which she was formerly distinguished ;
but a week spent in intimate conversation with her
friend convinced her not only that she had not
forgotten much that she had feared, but had also
not forgotten much that she had hoped. For this,
and other reasons, her friend’s departure left her
slightly depressed. She felt lonely and even a little
elderly—she had lost another illusion. Laura Benton,
for whom a year ago she had entertained a serious
regard, now impressed her as a very flimsy little
person, who talked about her lover with almost
indecent flippancy.

Meanwhile, September was slowly running its
course. One morning Mr. Moore took a hasty break-
fast and started to catch the train for Slowfield,
whither a scientific conference called him, which
might, he said, release him that afternoon in time
for dinner at home, or might, on the other hand,
detain him till the night. It was almost the first
time during the term of Adela’s rustication that she
had been left alone for several hours. Her brother’s
quiet presence was inappreciable enough; yet now
that he was at a distance she felt a singular sense
of freedom: a return of that condition of early
childhood when, through some domestic catastrophe,
she had for an infinite morning been left to her own

181

A DAY OF DAYS

devices. What should she do? she asked herself,
with the smile that she reserved for her maidenly
monologues. It was a good day for work, but it was
a still better one for play. Should she drive into
town and call on a lot of tiresome local people?
Should she go into the kitchen and try her hand at
a pudding for dinner? She felt a delectable longing
to do something illicit, to play with fire, to discover
some Bluebeard’s closet. But poor Herbert was no
Bluebeard ; if she were to burn down his house he
would exact no amends. Adela went out to the
verandah, and, sitting down on the steps, gazed
across the country. It was apparently the last day
of summer. The sky was faintly blue; the woody
hills were putting on the morbid colours of autumn ;
the great pine-grove behind the house seemed to have
caught and imprisoned the protesting breezes. Look-
ing down the road toward the village, it occurred
to Adela that she might have a visit, and so human
was her mood that if any of the local people were
to come to her she felt it was in her to humour them.
As the sun rose higher she went in and established
herself with a piece of embroidery in a deep bow-
window, in the second story, which, betwixt its muslin
curtains and its external framework of high-creeping
plants, commanded most insidiously the principal
approach to the house. While she drew her threads
she surveyed the road with a deepening conviction
that she was destined to have a caller. The air was
warm, yet not hot; the dust had been laid during
the night by a gentle rain. It had been from the
first a source of complaint among Adela’s new friends
that she was equally gracious to all men, and, what
was more remarkable, to all women. Not only had
she dedicated herself to no friendships, but she had
committed herself to no preferences. Nevertheless,
it was with an imagination by no means severely
782

A DAY OF DAYS

impartial that she sat communing with her open
casement. She had very soon made up her mind
that, to answer the requirements of the hour, her
visitor must be of a sex as different as possible from
her own; and as, thanks to the few differences in
favour of any individual she had been able to dis-
cover among the young males of the country-side,
her roll-call in this her hour of need was limited to
a single name, so her thoughts were now centred
upon the bearer of that name, Mr. Weatherby Pynsent,
the Unitarian minister. If instead of being Miss
Moore’s story this were Mr. Pynsent’s, it might easily
be condensed into the simple statement that he was
very far gone indeed. Although affiliated to a richer
ceremonial than his own she had been so well pleased
with one of his sermons, to which she had allowed
herself to lend a tolerant ear, that, meeting him some
time afterward, she had received him with what she
considered a rather knotty doctrinal question ; where-
upon, gracefully waiving the question, he had asked
permission to call upon her and talk over her “ diffi-
culties.” This short interview had enshrined her in
the young minister’s heart; and the half-a-dozen
occasions on which he had subsequently contrived
to see her had each contributed another candle to her
altar. It is but fair to add, however, that, although
a captive, Mr. Pynsent was as yet no captor. He was
simply an honourable young parson, who happened at
this moment to be the most sympathetic companion
within reach. Adela, at twenty-five years of age, had
both a past and a future. Mr. Pynsent reminded
her of the one and gave her a foretaste of the other.
So, at last, when, as the morning waned toward
noon, Adela descried in the distance a man’s figure
treading the grassy margin of the road, and swinging
his stick as he came, she smiled to herself with some
complacency. But even while she smiled she became
183

' A DAY OF DAYS

conscious that her heart was beating quite idiotically.
She rose, and, resenting her gratuitous emotion,
stood for a moment half resolved to see no one at all.
As she did so she glanced along the road again. Her
friend had drawn nearer, and as the distance lessened
she began to perceive that he was not her friend.
Before many moments her doubts were removed ;
the gentleman was a stranger. In front of the house
three roads went their different ways, and a spreading
elm, tall and slim, like the feathery sheaf of a gleaner,
with an ancient bench beneath it, made an informal
vond-point. The stranger came along the opposite
side of the highway, and when he reached the elm
stopped and looked about him, as if to verify some
direction that had been given him. Then he deliber-
ately crossed over. Adela had time to see, unseen,
that he was a robust young man, with a bearded
chin and a soft white hat. After the due interval
Becky the maid came up with a card somewhat
rudely superscribed in pencil :

Tuomas Luptow,
New York.

Turning it over in her fingers, Adela saw the
gentleman had made use of the reverse of a paste-
board abstracted from the basket on her own drawing-
room table. The printed name on the other side
was dashed out ; it ran: Mr. Weatherby Pynsent.

“‘He asked me to give you this, ma’am,”’ said
Becky. ‘‘ He helped himself to it out of the tray.”

‘“‘ Did he ask for me by name? ”

‘No, ma’am; he asked for Mr. Moore. When
I told him Mr. Moore was away, he asked for some
of the family. I told him you was all the family,
ma’am.”’

“Very well,” said Adela, “I will godown.” But,

184

A DAY OF DAYS

begging her pardon, we will precede her by a few
steps.

Tom Ludlow, as his friends called him, was a
young man of twenty-eight, concerning whom you
might have heard the most various opinions; for,
as far as he was known (which, indeed, was not
very far), he was at once one of the best liked and
one of the best hated of men. Born in one of the
lower walks of New York life, he still seemed always
to move in his native element. A certain crudity
of manner and aspect proved him to belong to the
great vulgar, muscular, popular majority. On this
basis, however, he was a sufficiently good-looking
fellow: a middle-sized, agile figure, a head so well
shaped as to be handsome, a pair of inquisitive,
responsive eyes, and a large, manly mouth, con-
stituting the most expressive part of his equipment.
Turned upon the world at an early age, he had, in
the pursuit of a subsistence, tried his head at every-
thing in succession, and had generally found it to
be quite as hard as the opposing substance; and
his person may have been thought to reflect this
experience in an air of taking success too much for
granted. He was a man of strong faculties and a
strong will, but it is doubtful whether his feelings
were stronger than he. People liked him for his
directness, his good-humour, his general soundness
and serviceableness, and disliked him for the same
qualities under different names; that is, for his im-
pudence, his offensive optimism, his inhuman avidity
for facts. When his friends insisted upon his noble
disinterestedness, his enemies were wont to reply it
was all very well to ignore, to suppress, one’s own
sensibilities in the pursuit of knowledge, but to trample
on the rest of mankind at the same time betrayed
an excess of zeal. Fortunately for Ludlow, on the
whole, he was no great listener, and even if he had
185

A DAY OF DAYS

been, a certain plebeian thick-skinnedness would
always have saved his tenderer parts; although it
must be added that, if, like a genuine democrat, he
was very insensitive, like a genuine democrat, too,
he was unexpectedly proud. His tastes, which had
always been for the natural sciences, had recently
led him to the study of fossil remains, the branch
cultivated by Herbert Moore; and it was upon
business connected with this pursuit that, after a
short correspondence, he had now come to see him.

As Adela went to him he came out from the win-
dow, where he had been looking at the lawn. She
acknowledged the friendly nod which he apparently
intended for a greeting.

** Miss Moore, I believe,’’ said Ludlow.

“* Miss Moore,”’ said Adela.

“I beg your pardon for this intrusion, but as I
have come from a distance to see Mr. Moore, on
business, I thought I might venture either to ask at
headquarters how he may most easily be reached, or
even to give you a message for him.”’ These words
were accompanied with a smile under the influence
of which it had been written on the scroll of Adela’s
fate that she was to descend from her pedestal.

“ Pray make no apologies,’’ she said. ‘‘ We hardly
recognise such a thing as intrusion in this simple
little place. Won’t you sitdown? My brother went
away only this morning, and I expect him back this
afternoon.”’

“This afternoon ? indeed. In that case I believe
I'll wait. It was very stupid of me not to have
dropped a word beforehand. But I have been in
the city all summer long, and I shall not be sorry
to squeeze a little vacation out of this business. I’m
tremendously fond of the country, and I have been
working for many months in a musty museum.”

“ It’s possible that my brother may not come home

186

A DAY OF DAYS

until the evening,’’ Adela said. ‘‘ He was uncertain.
You might go to him at Slowfield.”’

Ludlow reflected a moment, with his eyes on his
hostess. ‘“‘If he does return in the afternoon, at
what hour will he arrive ? ”’

‘Well, about three.”

‘And my own train leaves at four. Allow him a
quarter of an hour to come from town and myself
a quarter of an hour to get there (if he would give
me his vehicle back). In that case I should have
about half an hour to see him. We couldn’t do much
talk, but I could ask him the essential questions.
I wish chiefly to ask him for some letters—letters
of recommendation to some foreign scientists. He
is the only man in this country who knows how much
I know. It seems a pity to take two superfluous
—that is, possibly superfluous—railway journeys, of
an hour apiece; for I should probably come back
with him. Don’t you think sor” he asked, very
frankly.

“You know best,” said Adela. ‘‘I am _ not
particularly fond of the journey to Slowfield, even
when it’s absolutely necessary.”’

“Yes ; and then this is such a lovely day for a
good long ramble in the fields. That’s a thing I
haven’t had since I don’t know when. I guess I'll
remain.’ And he placed his hat on the floor beside
him.

“TI am afraid, now that I think of it,’”’ said Adela,
“that there is no train until so late an hour that
you would have very little time left on your arrival
to talk with my brother, before the hour at which
he himself might have determined to start for home.
It’s true that you might induce him to stop over
till the evening.”

“Dear me! I shouldn’t want to do that. It
might be very inconvenient for Mr. Moore, don’t you

187

A DAY OF DAYS

see ? Besides, I shouldn’t have time. And then I
always like to see a man in his home—or at some
place of my own; a man, that is, whom IJ have any
regard for—and I have a very great regard for your
brother, Miss Moore. When men meet at a half-way
house neither feels at his ease. And then this is such
an attractive country residence of yours,’’ pursued
Ludlow, looking about him.

“Yes, it’s a very pretty place,”’ said Adela.

Ludlow got up and walked to the window. “I
want to look at your view,’ he remarked. “ A lovely
little spot. You are a happy woman, Miss Moore,
to have the beauties of nature always before your
eyes.”

“Yes, if pretty scenery can make one happy, I
ought to be happy.” And Adela was glad to regain
her feet and stand on the other side of the table,
before the window.

“ Don’t you think. it can ? ’ asked Ludlow, turning
round. “I don’t know, though; perhaps it can't.
Ugly sights can’t make you unhappy, necessarily. I
have been working for a year in one of the narrowest,
darkest, dirtiest, busiest streets in New York, with
rusty bricks and muddy gutters for scenery. But
I think I can hardly set up to be miserable. I wish
I could! It might be a claim on your benevolence.”’
As he said these words he stood leaning against the
window-shutter, outside the curtain, with folded arms.
The morning light covered his face, and, mingled
with that of his radiant laugh, showed Adela that
his was a nature very much alive.

‘“‘ Whatever else he may be,” she said to herself,
as she stood within the shade of the other curtain,
playing with the paper-knife, which she had plucked
from the table, ‘‘ I think he is honest. I am afraid
he isn’t a gentleman—but he isn’t a bore.”” She met
his eye, freely, for a moment. ‘‘ What do you want

188

A DAY OF DAYS

of my benevolence ? ’’ she asked, with an abruptness
of which she was perfectly conscious. ‘‘ Does he wish
to make friends,’’ she pursued, tacitly, ‘‘ or does he
merely wish to pay me a vulgar compliment ? There
is bad taste, perhaps, in either case, but especially
in the latter.” Meanwhile her visitor had already
answered her.

‘What do I want of your benevolence? Why,
what does one want of any pleasant thing in life ? ”’

‘“‘ Dear me, if you never have anything pleasanter
than that!’ our heroine exclaimed.

“It will do very .well for the present occasion,”
said the young man, blushing, in a large masculine
way, at his own quickness of repartee.

Adela glanced toward the clock on the chimney-
piece. She was curious to measure the duration of
her acquaintance with this breezy invader of her
privacy, with whom she so suddenly found herself
bandying jokes so personal. She had known him
some eight minutes.

Ludlow observed her movement. ‘‘I am inter-
rupting you and detaining you from your own affairs,”
he said ; and he moved toward his hat. ‘I suppose
I must bid you good-morning.”’ And he picked it up.

Adela stood at the table and watched him cross
the room. To express a very delicate feeling in
terms comparatively crude, she was loth to see him
depart. She divined, too, that he was very sorry
to go. The knowledge of this feeling on his side,
however, affected her composure but slightly. The
truth is—we say it with all respect—Adela was an
old hand. She was modest, honest and wise; but,
as we have said, she had a past—a past of which
importunate swains in the guise of morning-callers
had been no inconsiderable part ; and a great dexterity
in what may be called outflanking these gentlemen
was one of her registered accomplishments. Her

78q

A DAY OF DAYS

liveliest emotion at présent, therefore, was less one
of annoyance at her companion than of surprise at
her own mansuetude, which was yet undeniable.
““Am I dreaming ? ”’ she asked herself. She looked
out of the window, and then back at Ludlow, who
stood grasping his hat and stick, contemplating her
face. Should she give him leave to remain? ‘“‘ He
is honest,” she repeated; ‘“‘ why should not I be
honest for once? I am sorry you are in a hurry,”
she said, aloud.

“Tam in no hurry,” he answered.

Adela turned her face to the window again, and
toward the opposite hills. There was a moment’s
pause.

“T thought you were in a hurry,” said Ludlow.

Adela shifted her eyes back to where they could
see him. “‘ My brother would be very glad that you
should stay as long as you like. He would expect
me to offer you what little hospitality is in my
power.”’

“ Pray, offer it then.”

“That is very easily done. This is the parlour,
and there, beyond the hall, is my brother’s study.
Perhaps you would like to look at his books and
collections. I know nothing about them, and I should
be a very poor guide. But you are welcome to go
in and use your discretion in examining what may
interest you.”’

“This, I take it, would be but another way of
separating from you.”

“For the present, yes.”

‘“‘ But I hesitate to take such liberties with your
brother’s things as you recommend.”

‘““ Recommend ? I recommend nothing.”

“But if I decline to penetrate into Mr. Moore’s
sanctum, what alternative remains ? ”

“ Really—you must make your own alternative.”

Tgo

A DAY OF DAYS

“I think you mentioned the parlour. Suppose
I choose that.”

“ Just as you please. Here are some books, and
if you like I will bring you some periodicals. There
are ever sO many scientific papers. Can I serve you
in any other way? Are you tired by your walk?
Would you like a glass of wine ? ”’

“Tired by my walk ?—not exactly. You are
very kind, but I feel no immediate desire for a glass
of wine. I think you needn’t trouble yourself about
the scientific periodicals either. I am not exactly
in the mood to read.’”’ And Ludlow pulled out his
watch and compared it with the clock. “I am
afraid your clock is fast.”

“ Yes,’’ said Adela ; “ very likely.”

‘Some ten minutes. Well, I suppose I had better
be walking.” And, coming toward Adela, he extended
his hand.

She gave him hers. “It is a day of days for a
long, slow ramble,” she said.

Ludlow’s only rejoinder was his hand-shake. He
moved slowly toward the door, half accompanied by
Adela. ‘“ Poor fellow!’ she said to herself. There
was a summer door, composed of lattices painted
green, like a shutter; it admitted into the hall a
cool, dusky light, in which Adela looked pale. Ludlow
pushed its wings apart with his stick, and disclosed
a landscape, long, deep, and bright, framed by the
pillars of the porch. He stopped on the threshold,
swinging his cane. ‘‘I hope I shall not lose my
way,’ he said.

“IT hope not. My brother will not forgive me
if you do.”

Ludlow’s brows were slightly contracted by a
frown, but he contrived to smile with his lips. “ When
shall I come back ? ”’ he asked, abruptly.

Adela found but a low tone—almost a whisper—

IQI

A DAY OF DAYS

at her command to answer — “ Whenever you
please.”’

The young man turned round, with his back to
the bright doorway, and looked into Adela’s face,
which was now covered with light. ‘‘ Miss Moore,”’
said he, “it’s very much against my will that I
leave you at all!”

Adela stood debating within herself. After all,
what if her companion should stay with her? It
would, under the circumstances, be an adventure ;
but was an adventure necessarily a criminal thing ?
It lay wholly with herself to decide. She was her
own mistress, and she had hitherto been a just
mistress. Might she not for once be a generous one ?
The reader will observe in Adela’s meditation the
recurrence of this saving clause “‘ for once.’’ It was
produced by the simple fact that she had begun the
day in a romantic mood. She was prepared to be
interested ; and now that an interesting phenomenon
had presented itself, that it stood before her in vivid
human—nay, manly—shape, instinct with reciprocity,
was she to close her hand to the liberality of fate ?
To do so would be only to expose herself the more,
for it would imply a gratuitous insult to human
nature. Was not the man before her redolent of
good intentions, and was that not enough? He was
not what Adela had been used to call a gentleman ;
at this conviction she had arrived by a rapid diagonal,
and now it served as a fresh starting-point. ‘ I have
seen all the gentlemen can show me” (this was her
syllogism): “let us try something new! I see no
reason why you should run away so fast, Mr. Ludlow,”’
she said, aloud.

“‘T think it would be the greatest piece of folly
I ever committed !”’ cried the young man.

“I think it would be rather a pity,’’ Adela re-
marked.

192

A DAY OF DAYS

“‘ And you invite me into your parlour again? I
come as your visitor, you know. I was your brother’s
before. It’s a simple enough matter. We are old
friends. We have a solid common ground in your
brother. Isn’t that about it?”

“You may adopt whatever theory you please.
To my mind it is indeed a very simple matter.”

‘Oh, but I wouldn’t have it too simple,” said
Ludlow, with a genial smile.

“‘ Have it as you please ! ”’

Ludlow leaned back against the doorway. ‘“ Look
here, Miss Moore ; your kindness makes me as gentle
as a little child. I am passive ; I am in your hands ;
do with me what you please. I can’t help contrasting
my fate with what it might have been but for you.
A quarter of an hour ago I was ignorant of your
existence ; you were not in my programme. I had
no idea your brother had a sister. When your
servant spoke of ‘Miss Moore,’ upon my word I
expected something rather elderly—something vener-
able—some rigid old lady, who would say, ‘ exactly,’
and ‘very well, sir,’ and leave me to spend the rest
of the morning tilting back in a chair on the piazza
of the hotel. It shows what fools we are to attempt
to forecast the future.”’

“We must not let our imagination run away with
us in any direction,” said Adela, sententiously.

“Imagination ? I don’t believe I have any. No,
madam ’’—and Ludlow straightened himself up—“ I
live in the present. I write my programme from
hour to hour—or, at any rate, I will in the future.”’

“I think you are very wise,’’ said Adela. ‘“* Sup-

you write a programme for the present hour.
What shall we do? It seems-to me a pity to spend
so lovely a morning in-doors. There is something in
the air—I can’t imagine what—which seems to say
it is the last day of summer. We ought to com-

193 )

A DAY OF DAYS

memorate it. How should you like to take a walk ? ”’
Adela had decided that, to reconcile her aforesaid
benevolence with the proper maintenance of her
dignity, her only course was to be the perfect hostess.
This decision made, very naturally and gracefully she
played her part. It was the one possible part ; and
yet it did not preclude those delicate sensations with
which so rare an episode seemed charged : it simply
legitimated them. A romantic adventure on so con-
ventional a basis would assuredly hurt no one.

“T should like a walk very much,” said Ludlow ;
‘a walk with a halt at the end of it.”

“Well, if you will consent to a short halt at the
beginning of it,’’ Adela rejoined, “I will be with you
in a very few minutes.’”’ When she returned, in her
little hat and jacket, she found her friend seated on the
steps of the verandah. He arose and gave her a card.

“ T have been requested, in your absence, to hand
you this.”’

Adela read with some compunction the name of
Mr. Weatherby Pynsent.

“Has he been here? ”’ she asked. “‘ Why didn’t
he come in?”

“TI told him you were not at home. [If it wasn’t
true then, it was going to be true so soon that the
interval was hardly worth taking account of. He
addressed himself to me, as I seemed from my position
to be quite in possession ; that is, I put myself in his
way, as it were, so that he had to speak to me: but
I confess he looked at me as if he doubted my word.
He hesitated as to whether he should confide his
name to me, or whether he should ring for the servant.
I think he wished to show me that he suspected my
veracity, for he was making rather grimly for the
door-bell when I, fearing that once inside the house
he might encounter the living truth, informed him
in the most good-humoured tone possible that I would

194

A DAY OF DAYS

take charge of his little tribute, if he would trust me
with it.”’

“It seems to me, Mr. Ludlow, that you are a
strangely unscrupulous man. How did you know
that Mr. Pynsent’s business was not urgent ? ”

“I didn’t know it! But I knew it could be no
more urgent than mine. Depend upon it, Miss Moore,
you have no case against me. I only pretend to be
aman; to have admitted that sweet little cleric—
isn’t he a cleric, eh ?>—would have been the act of
an angel.”’

Adela was familiar with a sequestered spot, in the
very heart of the fields, as it seemed to her, to which
she now proposed to conduct her friend. The point
was to select a goal neither too distant nor too near,
and to adopt a pace neither too rapid nor too slow.
But, although Adela’s happy valley was at least two
miles away, and they had dawdled immensely over
the interval, yet their arrival at a certain little rustic
gate, beyond which the country grew vague and
gently wild, struck Adela as sudden. Once on the
road she felt a precipitate conviction that there could
be no evil in an excursion so purely pastoral and no
guile in a spirit so deeply sensitive to the influences
of nature, and to the melancholy aspect of incipient
autumn, as that of her companion. A man with an
unaffected relish for small children is a man to inspire
young women with a confidence; and so, in a less
degree, a man with a genuine feeling for the un-
sophisticated beauties of a casual New England land-
scape may not unreasonably be regarded by the
daughters of the scene as a person whose motives are
pure. Adela was a great observer of the clouds, the
trees, and the streams, the sounds and colours, the
transparent airs and blue horizons of her adopted
home ; and she was reassured by Ludlow’s apprecia-
tion of these modest phenomena. His enjoyment of

195

A DAY OF DAYS

them, deep as it was, however, had to struggle against
the sensuous depression natural to a man who has
spent the summer looking over dry specimens in a
laboratory, and against an impediment of a less
material order—the feeling that Adela was a remark-
ably attractive woman. Still, naturally a great talker,
he uttered his various satisfactions with abundant
humour and point. Adela felt that he was decidedly
a companion for the open air—he was a man to make
use, even to abuse, of the wide horizon and the high
ceiling of nature. The freedom of his gestures, the
sonority of his voice, the keenness of his vision, the
general vivacity of his manners, seemed to necessitate
and to justify a universal absence of resisting surfaces,
They passed through the little gate and wandered
over empty pastures, until the ground began to rise,
and stony surfaces to crop through the turf; when,
after a short ascent, they reached a broad plateau,
covered with boulders and shrubs, which lost itself
on one side in a short, steep cliff, whence fields and
marshes stretched down to the opposite river, and on
the other, in scattered clumps of cedar and maple,
which gradually thickened and multiplied, until the
horizon in that quarter was purple with mild masses
of forest. Here was both sun and shade—the un-
obstructed sky, or the whispering dome of a circle of
trees which had always reminded Adela of the stone-
pines of the Villa Borghese. Adela led the way to a
sunny seat among the rocks which commanded the
course of the river, where the murmuring cedars would
give them a kind of human company.

“It has always seemed to me that the wind in
the trees is always the voice of coming changes,”
Ludlow said.

“ Perhaps it is,” Adela replied. ‘‘ The trees are
for ever talking in this melancholy way, and men
‘are for ever changing.”

196

A DAY OF DAYS

“Yes, but they can only be said to express the
foreboding of coming events—that is what I mean
—when there is some one there to hear them; and
more especially some one in whose life a change is,
to his knowledge, about to take place. Then they
are quite prophetic. Don’t you know Longfellow
says so?”

“Yes, I know Longfellow says so. But you seem
to speak from your own inspiration.”

“Well, I rather think I do.”

“Ts there some great change hanging over you ? ”’

“ Yes, rather ari important one.”’

“T believe that’s what men say when they are
going to be married,” said Adela.

“T am going to be divorced, rather. I am going
to Europe.”

“ Indeed !| soon ? ”

“ To-morrow,” said Ludlow, after an instant’s
pause.

“Oh!” exclaimed Adela. ‘“‘ How I envy you!”

Ludlow, who sat looking over the cliff and tossing
stones down into the plain, observed a certain in-
equality in the tone of his companion’s two exclama-
tions. The first was nature, the second art. He
turned his eyes upon her, but she had directed hers
away into the distance. Then, for a moment, he
retreated within himself and thought. He rapidly
surveyed his position. Here was he, Tom Ludlow, a
hard-headed son of toil; without fortune, without
credit, without antecedents, whose lot was cast ex-
clusively with vulgar males, and who had never had
a mother, a sister, nor a well-bred sweetheart, to
pitch his voice for the feminine tympanum, who had
seldom come nearer an indubitable lady than, in a
favouring crowd, to receive a mechanical “ thank
you ” (as if he were a policeman) for some accidental
assistance: here he found himself up to his neck in

197

A DAY OF DAYS

a sudden pastoral with a young woman who was
evidently altogether superior. That it was in him
to enjoy the society of such a person (provided, of
course, She were not a chit) he very well knew ; but
he had never happened to suppose that he should
find it open to-him. Was he now to infer that this
brilliant gift was his—the gift of what is called in the
relation between the sexes success? The inference
was at least logical. He had made a good impression.
Why else should an eminently discriminating girl have
fraternised with him at such a rate? It was with a
little thrill of satisfaction that Ludlow reflected upon
the directness of his course. ‘“‘ It all comes back to
my old theory that a process can’t be too simple. I
used no arts. In such an enterprise I shouldn’t have
known where to begin. It was my ignorance of the
regular way that saved me. Women like a gentle-
man, of course; but they like a man better.” It
was the little touch of nature he had detected in
Adela’s tone that set him thinking ; but as compared
with the frankness of his own attitude it betrayed
after all no undue emotion. Ludlow had accepted
the fact of his adaptability to the idle mood of a
cultivated woman in a thoroughly rational spirit, and
he was not now tempted to exaggerate its bearings.
He was not the man to be intoxicated by a triumph
after all possibly superficial. ‘‘ If Miss Moore is so
wise—or so foolish—as to like me half an hour for
what I am, she is welcome,” he said to himself.
“ Assuredly,”’ he added, as he glanced at her intelligent
profile, “she will not like me for what I am not.”
It needs a woman, however, far more intelligent than
(thank heaven !) most women are—more intelligent,
certainly, than Adela was—to guard her happiness
against a clever man’s consistent assumption of her
intelligence ; and doubtless it was from a sense of this
general truth that, as Ludlow continued to observe

198

A DAY OF DAYS

his companion, he felt an emotion of manly tenderness.
“IT wouldn’t offend her for the world,” he thought.
Just then Adela, conscious of his contemplation,
looked about; and before he knew it, Ludlow had
repeated aloud, ‘‘ Miss Moore, I wouldn’t offend you
for the world.”’

Adela eyed him for a moment with a little flush
that subsided into a smile. ‘‘ To what dreadful im-
pertinence is that the prelude ? ” she inquired.

“It’s the prelude to nothing. It refers to the past
—to any possible displeasure I may have caused you.”

“Your scruples are unnecessary, Mr. Ludlow. If
you had given me offence, I should not have left you
to apologise for it. I should not have left the matter
to occur to you as you sat dreaming charitably in the
sun.”

“What would you have done? ”’

“Done? nothing. You don’t imagine I would
have scolded you—or snubbed you—or answered you
back, I take it. I would have left undone—what, I
can’t tell you. Ask yourself what I have done. I
am sure I hardly know myself,” said Adela, with
some intensity. “At all events, here I am sitting
with you in the fields, as if you were a friend of many
years. Why do you speak of offence?’ And Adela
(an uncommon accident with her) lost command of
her voice, which trembled ever so slightly. ‘‘ What
an odd thought! why should you offend me? Do
I seem so open to that sort of thing? ”’ Her colour
had deepened again, and her eyes had brightened.
She had forgotten herself, and before speaking had
not, as was her wont, sought counsel of that staunch
conservative, her taste. She had spoken from a full
heart—a heart which had been filling rapidly, since
the outset of their walk, with a feeling almost
passionate in its quality, and which that little puff
of the actual conveyed in Mr. Ludlow’s announcement

199

A DAY OF DAYS

of his departure had caused to overflow. The reader
may give this feeling whatever name he chooses. We
will content ourselves with saying that Adela had
played with fire so effectually that she had been
scorched. The slight violence of the speech just
quoted may represent her sensation of pain.

“You pull one up rather short, Miss Moore,” said
Ludlow. ‘ A man says the best he can.”

Adela made no reply—for a moment she hung her
head. Was she to cry out because she was hurt?
Was she to thrust her injured heart into a company
in which there was, as yet at least, no question of
hearts? No! here our reserved and contemplative
heroine is herself again. Her part was still to be the
youthful woman of the world, the perfect young lady.
For our own part, we can imagine no figure more
engaging than this civilised and disciplined personage
under such circumstances; and if Adela had been
the most accomplished of coquettes she could not
have assumed a more becoming expression than the
air of judicious consideration which now covered her
features. But having paid this generous homage to
propriety, she felt free to suffer in secret. Raising
her eyes from the ground, she abruptly addressed her
companion.

“* By the way, Mr. Ludlow, tell me something about
yourself.”’

Ludlow burst into a laugh. ‘‘ What shall I tell
you?”

“ Everything.”

‘Everything ? Excuse me, I’m not such a fool.
But do you know that’s a very tempting request you
make? I suppose I ought to blush and hesitate ;
but I never yet blushed or hesitated in the nght
place.”

‘Very good. There is one fact. Continue. Begin
at the beginning.”

200

A DAY OF DAYS

“Well, let me see. My name you know. I am
twenty-eight years old.”

“ That’s the end,” said Adela.

“* But you don’t want the history of my babyhood,
I take it. I imagine that I was a very big, noisy,
ugly baby—what’s called a ‘splendid infant.’ My
parents were poor, and, of course, honest. They
belonged to a very different set—or ‘sphere,’ I suppose
you call it—from any you probably know. They
were working people. My father was a chemist, in a
small way of business, and I suspect my mother was
not above using her hands to turn a penny. But
although I don’t remember her, I am sure she was a
good, sound woman ; I feel her occasionally in my
own sinews. I myself have been at work all my life,
and a very good worker I am, let me tell you. I am
not patient, as I imagine your brother to be—although
I have more patience than you might suppose—but
I don’t let go easily. If I strike you as very ego-
tistical, remember ’twas you began it. I don’t know
whether I am clever, and I don’t much care; that’s
a kind of metaphysical, sentimental, vapid word.
But I know what I want to know, and I generally
manage to find it out. I don’t know much about
my moral nature; I have no doubt I am beastly
selfish. Still, I don’t like to hurt people’s feelings,
and I am rather fond of poetry and flowers. I don’t
believe I am very ‘ high-toned,’ allthesame. I should
not be at all surprised to discover I was prodigiously
conceited ; but I am afraid the discovery wouldn't
cut me down much. I am remarkably hard to keep
down, I know. Oh, you would think me a great
brute if you knew me. I shouldn’t recommend any
one to count too much on my being of an amiable
disposition. I am often very much bored with people
who are fond of me—because some of them are,
really ; so I am afraid I am ungrateful. Of course,

201

A DAY OF DAYS

as a man speaking to a woman, there’s nothing for
it but to say I am very low; but I hate to talk
about things you can’t prove. I have got very little
“general culture,’ you know, but first and last I
have read a great many books—and, thank heaven,
I remember things. And I have some tastes, too.
I am very fond of music. I have a good young
voice of my own; that I can’t help knowing; and
I am not one to be bullied about pictures. I know
how to sit on a horse, and how to row a boat. Is
that enough? I am conscious of a great inability to
say anything to the point. To put myself in a nut-
shell, I am a greedy specialist—and not a bad fellow.
Still, Iam only what I am—a very common creature.”’

“Do you call yourself a very common creature
because you really believe yourself to be one, or
because you are weakly tempted to disfigure your
rather flattering catalogue with a great final blot?”

“T am sure I don’t know. You show more
subtlety in that one question than I have shown
in a whole string of affirmations. You women are
strong on asking embarrassing questions. Seriously,
I believe I am second-rate. I wouldn’t make such
an admission to every one though. But to you,
Miss Moore, who sit there under your parasol as
impartial as the muse of history, to you I owe the
truth. J am no man of genius. There is something
I miss ; some final distinction I lack ; you may call
it what you please. Perhaps it’s humility. Perhaps
you can find it in Ruskin, somewhere. Perhaps
it’s delicacy—perhaps it’s imagination. I am very
vulgar, Miss Moore. I am the vulgar son of vulgar
people. I use the word, of course, in its literal sense.
So much I grant you at the outset, but it’s my last
concession ! ”’

“Your concessions are smaller than they sound.
Have you any sisters? ”

202

A DAY OF DAYS

“Not a sister; and no brothers, nor cousins,
nor uncles, nor aunts.”

“‘ And you sail for Europe to-morrow ? ”

“To-morrow, at ten o’clock.”’

“To be away how long? ”

“As long as I can. Five years, if possible.”

“What do you expect to do in those five years? ”’

“Well, study.”

‘“‘ Nothing but study ? ”

‘It will all come back to that, I guess. I hope to
enjoy myself considerably, and to look at the world as
I go. But I must not waste time; I am growing old.”’

‘Where are you going ? ”

“To Berlin. I wanted to get some letters of
introduction from your brother.”

““Have you money? Are you well off ? ”’

‘Well off? Not I, heaven forgive me! I am
very poor. I have in hand a little money that has
just come to me from an unexpected quarter: an
old debt owing my father. It will take me to
Germany and keep me for six months. After that
I shall work my way.”

“Are you happy? Are you contented ? ”

“ Just now I am pretty comfortable, thank you.”

“‘ But shall you be so when you get to Berlin ? ”

“TY don’t promise to be contented; but I am
pretty sure to be happy.”

“Well,” said Adela, “I sincerely hope you will
succeed in everything.”

“Thank you, awfully,” said Ludlow.

Of what more was said at this moment no record
may be given here. The reader has been put into
possession of the key of our friends’ conversation ;
it is only needful to say that in this key it was pro-
longed for half an hour more. .As the minutes elapsed
Adela found herself drifting further and further
away from her anchorage. When at last she com-

203

A DAY OF DAYS

pelled herself to consult her watch and remind her
companion that there remained but just time enough
for them to reach home in anticipation of her brother’s
arrival, she knew that she was rapidly floating sea-
ward. As she descended the hill at her companion’s
side she felt herself suddenly thrilled by an acute
temptation. Her first instinct was to close her eyes
upon it, in the trust that when she should open them
again it would have vanished; but she found that
it was not to be so uncompromisingly dismissed.
It pressed her so hard that before she walked a mile
homeward she had succumbed to it, or had at least
given it the pledge of that quickening of the heart
which accompanies a bold resolution. This little
sacrifice allowed her no breath for idle words, and
she accordingly advanced with a bent and listening
head. Ludlow marched along, with no apparent
diminution of his habitual buoyancy of mien, talking
as fast and as loud as at the outset. He risked a
prophecy that Mr. Moore would not have returned,
and charged Adela with a comical message of regrets.
Adela had begun by wondering whether the approach
of their separation had wrought within him any
sentimental depressien at all commensurate with
her own, with that which sealed her lips and weighed
upon her heart; and now she was debating as to
whether his express declaration that he felt ‘ awfully
blue” ought necessarily to remove her doubts.
Ludlow followed up this declaration with a very
pretty review of the morning, and a leave-taking.
speech which, whether intensely sincere or not,
struck Adela as at least in very good taste. He might
be a common creature—but he was certainly a very
uncommon one. When they reached the garden-
gate it was with a fluttering heart that Adela scanned
the premises for some accidental sign of her brother’s
presence. She felt that there would be an especial
204

A DAY OF DAYS

fitness in his not having returned. She led the way
in. The hall table was bare of his usual hat and over-
coat, his silver-headed stick was not in the corner.
The only object that struck her was Mr. Pynsent’s
card, which she had deposited there on her exit.
All that was represented by that little white ticket
seemed a thousand miles away. She looked for Mr.
Moore in his study, but it was empty.

As Adela went back from her quest into the
drawing-room she simply shook her head at Lud-
low, who was standing before the fireplace ; and as
she did so she caught her reflexion in the mantel-
glass. “‘ Verily,’’ she said to herself, ‘‘ I have travelled
far.” She had pretty well unlearned her old dignities
and forms, but she was to break with them still more
completely. It was with a singular hardihood that
she prepared to redeem the little pledge which had
been extorted from her on her way home. She felt
that there was no trial to which her generosity might
now be called which she would not hail with enthusi-
asm. Unfortunately, her generosity was not likely
to be challenged ; although she nevertheless had the
satisfaction of assuring herself at this moment that,
like the mercy of the Lord, it was infinite. Should
she satisfy herself of her friend’s ? or should she leave
it delightfully uncertain ? These had been the terms
of what has been called her temptation, at the foot
of the hill.

“Well, I have very little time,’ said Ludlow ;
“T must get my dinner and pay my bill and drive’
to the train.” And he put out his hand.

Adela gave him her own, without meeting his eyes.
“You are in a great hurry,” she said, rather casually.

“It’s not I who am in a hurry. It’s my con-
founded destiny. It’s the train and the steamer.”

“Tf you really wished to stay you wouldn’t be
bullied by the train and the steamer.”

205

A DAY OF DAYS

“Very true—very true. But do I really wish
to stay?”

“That’s the question. That’s exactly what I
want to know.”

“You ask difficult questions, Miss Moore.”’

“ Difficult for me—yes.”’

“Then, of course, you are prepared to answer
easy ones.”

“‘ Let me hear what you call easy.”

“Well then, do you wish me to stay? All I
have to do is to throw down my hat, sit down, and
fold my arms for twenty minutes. I lose my train
and my ship. I remain in America, instead of going
to Europe.”

“T have thought of all that.”

““T don’t mean to say it’s a great deal. There
are attractions on both sides.”

“Yes, and especially on one. It ts a great deal.”

“And you request me to give it up—to renounce
Berlin ? ”

“No; I ought not to do that. What I ask of
you is whether, if I should so request you, you would
say ‘yes.’ ”’

“That does make the matter easy for you, Miss
Moore. What attractions do you hold out?”

“T hold out nothing whatever, sir.”’

““T suppose that means a great deal.”

“A great deal of absurdity.”

“Well, you are certainly a most interesting
woman, Miss Moore—a charming woman.”

“Why don’t you call me irresistible at once, and
bid me good morning ? ”

“T don’t know but that I shall have to come to
that. But I will give you no answer that leaves
you at an advantage. Ask me to stay—order me
to stay, if that suits you better—and I will see how
it sounds. Come, you must not trifle with a man.”

206

A DAY OF DAYS

He still held Adela’s hand, and now they were looking
watchfully ‘into each other’s eyes. He paused,
waiting for an answer.

“Good-bye, Mr. Ludlow,” said Adela. ‘‘ God
bless you! ’’ And she was about to withdraw her
hand ; but he held it.

‘ Are we friends ? ”’ said he.

Adela gave a little shrug of her shoulders. ‘‘ Friends
of three hours! ”’

Ludlow looked at her with some sternness. ‘‘ Our
parting could at best hardly have been sweet,” said
he; ‘but why should you make it bitter, Miss
Moore ? ”

“Tf it’s bitter, why should you try to change it ? ”’

‘‘ Because I don’t like bitter things.”

Ludlow had caught a glimpse of the truth—that
truth of which the reader has had a glimpse—and he
stood there at once thrilled and annoyed. He had
both a heart and a conscience. ‘It’s not my fault,”
he murmured to the latter; but he was unable to
add, in all consistency, that it was his misfortune.
It would be very heroic, very poetic, very chivalric,
to lose his steamer, and he felt that he could do so
for sufficient cause—at the suggestion of a fact. But
the motive here was less than a fact—an idea; less
than an idea—a mere guess. “It’s a very pretty
little romance as it is,’’ he said to himself. “ Why
spoil it? She’s a different sort from any I have met,
and just to have seen her like this—that is enough
for me!’’ He raised her hand to his lips, pressed
them to it, dropped it, reached the door, and bounded
out of the garden-gate.

207

A LIGHT MAN

And I—what I seem to my friend, you see—
What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess.
What I seem to myself, do you ask of me?
No hero, I confess.
‘‘A Light Woman.”
BROWNING’sS Men and Women.

APRIL 4, 1857.—I have changed my sky without
changing my mind. I resume these old notes in a
new world. I hardly know of what use they are ;
but it’s easier to stick to the habit than to drop it.
I have been at home now a week—at home, forsooth !
And yet, after all, it ts home. I am dejected, I am
bored, Iam blue. How can a man be more at home
than that ? Nevertheless, I am the citizen of a great
country, and for that matter, of a great city. I
walked to-day some ten miles or so along Broadway,
and, on the whole, I don’t blush for my native land.
We are a capable race and a good-looking withal ;
and I don’t see why we shouldn't prosper as well as
another. This, by the way, ought to be a very en-
couraging reflexion. A capable fellow and a good-
looking withal; I don’t see why he shouldn’t die a
millionaire. At all events he must do something.
When a man has, at thirty-two, a net income of
considerably less than nothing, he can scarcely hope
to overtake a fortune before he himself is overtaken
by age and philosophy—two deplorable impediments.
I am afraid that one of them has already planted
itself in my path. What am I? What do I wish?
air

A LIGHT MAN

Whither do I tend? What do I believe? I am
constantly beset by these impertinent whisperings.
Formerly it was enough that I was Maximus Austin ;
that I was endowed with a cheerful mind and a good
digestion ; that one day or another, when I had come
to the end, I should return to America and begin at
the beginning ; that, meanwhile, existence was sweet
in—in the Rue Tronchet. But now! Has the sweet-
ness really passed out of life? Have I eaten the
plums and left nothing but the bread and milk and
corn-starch, or whatever the horrible concoction is >—
I had it to-day for dinner. Pleasure, at least, I
imagine—pleasure pure and simple, pleasure crude,
brutal, and vulgar—this poor flimsy delusion has lost
all its charm. I shall never again care for certain
things—nor indeed for certain persons. Of such
things, of such persons, I firmly maintain, however,
that I never was an enthusiastic votary. It would
be more to my credit, I suppose, if I had been. More
would be forgiven me if I had loved a little more, if
into all my folly and egotism I had put a little more
naiveté and sincerity. Well, I did the best I could ;
I was at once too bad and too good for it all. At
present, it’s far enough off; I have put the sea
between us; I am stranded. I sit high and dry,
scanning the horizon for a friendly sail, or waiting
for a high tide to set me afloat. The wave of pleasure
has deposited me here in the sand. Shall I owe my
rescue to the wave of pain? At moments I feel a
kind of longing to expiate my stupid little sins. I
see, as through a glass, darkly, the beauty of labour
and love. Decidedly, I am willing to work. It’s
written. ,

7th.—My sail is in sight ; it’s at hand ; I have all
but boarded the vessel. I received this morning a
letter from the best man in the world. Here it
1s -—

212

A LIGHT MAN

DEAR Max—I see this very moment, in an old news-
paper which had already passed through my hands
without yielding up its most precious item, the announce-
ment of your arrival in New York. To think of your
having perhaps missed the welcome you had a right to
expect from me! Here it is, dear Max—as cordial as
you please. When I say I have just read of your arrival,
I mean that twenty minutes have elapsed by the clock.
These have been spent in conversation with my excellent
friend, Mr. Sloane—we having taken the liberty of
making you the topic. I haven’t time to say more
about Frederick Sloane than that he is very anxious
to make your acquaintance, and that, if your time is
not otherwise engaged, he would like you very much to
spend a month with him. He is an excellent host, or
I shouldn’t be here myself. It appears that he knew
your mother very intimately, and he has a taste for
visiting the amenities of the parents upon the children ;
the original ground of my own connexion with him was
that he had been a particular friend of my father. You
may have heard your mother speak of him. He is a
very strange old fellow, but you will like him. Whether
or no you come for his sake, come for mine.—Yours
always, THEODORE LISLE.

Theodore’s letter is of course very kind, but it’s
remarkably obscure. My mother may have had the
highest regard for Mr. Sloane, but she never men-
tioned his name in my hearing. Who is he, what is
he, and what is the nature of his relations with
Theodore ? I shall learn betimes. I have written to
Theodore that I gladly accept (I believe I suppressed
the “ gladly” though) his friend’s invitation, and
that I shall immediately present myself. What can
I do that is better? Speaking sordidly, I shall
obtain food and lodging while I look about me. I
shall have a base of operations. D——, it appears,
is a long day’s journey, but enchanting when you
reach it. Iam curious to see an enchanting American

213

A LIGHT MAN

town. Andtostayamonth! Mr. Frederick Sloane,
whoever you are, vous faites bien les choses, and the
little that I know of you is very much to your credit.
You enjoyed the friendship of my dear mother, you
possess the esteem of the virtuous Theodore, you
commend yourself to my own affection. At this rate
I shall not grudge it.

D——, 14th.—I have been here since Thursday
evening—three days. As we rattled up to the tavern
in the village I perceived from the top of the coach,
in the twilight, Theodore beneath the porch, scanning
the vehicle, with all his amiable disposition in his
eyes. He has grown older, of course, in these five
years, but less so than I had expected. His is one
of those smooth, unwrinkled souls that keep their
bodies fair and fresh. As tall as ever, moreover, and
as lean and clean. How short and fat and dark and
debauched he makes one feel! By nothing he says
or means, of course, but merely by his old unconscious
purity and simplicity—that slender straightness which
makes him remind you of the spire of an English
abbey. He greeted me with smiles, and stares, and
alarming blushes. He assures me that he never would
have known me, and that five years have altered me
—sehy! I asked him if it were for the better? He
looked at me hard for a moment, with his eyes of
blue, and then, for an answer, he blushed again.

On my arrival we agreed to walk over from the
village. He dismissed his waggon with my luggage,
and we went arm-in-arm through the dusk. The
town is seated at the foot of certain mountains,
whose names I have yet to learn, and at the head of
a big sheet of water, which, as yet, too, I know only
as “the Lake.’’ The road hitherward soon leaves
the village and wanders in rural loveliness by the
margin of this expanse. Sometimes the water is
hidden by clumps of trees, behind which we heard it

214

A LIGHT MAN

lapping and gurgling in the darkness ; sometimes it
stretches out from your feet in shining vagueness, as
if it were tired of making all day a million little eyes
at the great stupid hills. The walk from the tavern
takes some half an hour, and in this interval Theodore
made his position a little more clear. Mr. Sloane is
a rich old widower ; his age is seventy-two, and, as
his health is thoroughly broken, is practically even
greater ; and his fortune—Theodore, characteristically,
doesn’t know anything definite about that. It’s prob-
ably about a million. He has lived much in Europe
and in the “ great world’’; he has had adventures
and passions and all that sort of thing ; and now, in
the evening of his days, like an old French diplomatist,
he takes it into his head to write his memoirs. To
this end he has lured poor Theodore to his gruesome
side, to mend his pens for him. He has been a great
scribbler, says Theodore, all his days, and he proposes
to incorporate a large amount of promiscuous literary
matter into these souvenirs 1ntimes. Theodore’s prin-
cipal function seems to be to get him to leave things
out. In fact the poor youth seems troubled in
conscience. His patron’s lucubrations have taken
the turn of many other memoirs, and have ceased
to address themselves virginibus puerisque. On the
whole, he declares they are a very odd mixture—a
medley of gold and tinsel, of bad taste and good
sense. I can readily understand it. The old man
bores me, puzzles me, and amuses me.

He was in waiting to receive me. We found him
in his library—which, by the way, is simply the most
delightful apartment that I ever smoked a cigar in—
a room arranged for a lifetime. At one end stands a
great fireplace, with a florid, fantastic mantelpiece in
carved white marble—an importation, of course, and,
as one may say, an interpolation; the groundwork
of the house, the “ fixtures,’ being throughout plain,

4 4,4

A LIGHT MAN

solid, and domestic. Over the mantel-shelf is a large
landscape, a fine Gainsborough, full of the compli-
cated harmonies of an English summer. Beneath it
stands a row of bronzes of.the Renaissance and
potteries of the Orient. Facing the door, as you
enter, is an immense window, set in a recess, with
cushioned seats and large clear panes, stationed, as it
were, at the very apex of the lake (which forms an
almost perfect oval) and commanding a view of its
whole extent. At the other end, opposite the fire-
place, the wall is studded from floor to ceiling with
choice foreign paintings, placed in relief against the
orthodox crimson screen. Elsewhere the place is
covered with books, arranged neither in formal regu-
larity nor quite helter-skelter, but in a sort of genial
incongruity, which tells that sooner or later each
volume feels sure of leaving the ranks and returning
into different company. Mr. Sloane makes use of his
books. His two passions, according to Theodore, are
reading and talking ; but to talk he must have a book
in his hand. The charm of the room lies in the
absence of certain pedantic tones—the browns, blacks,
and greys—which distinguish most libraries. The
apartment is of the feminine gender. There are half-
a-dozen light colours scattered about—pink in the
carpet, tender blue in the curtains, yellow in the
chairs. The result is a general look of brightness and
lightness ; it expresses even a certain cynicism. You
perceive the place to be the home, not of a man of
learning, but of a man of fancy.

He rose from his chair—the man of fancy, to greet
me—the man of fact. As I looked at him, in the
lamplight, it seemed to me for the first five minutes
that I had seldom seen an uglier little person. It
took me five minutes to get the point of view; then
I began to admire. He is diminutive, or, at best, of
my own moderate stature, and bent and contracted

216

A LIGHT MAN

with his seventy years ; lean and delicate, moreoever,
and very highly finished. He is curiously pale, with
a kind of opaque yellow pallor. Literally, it’s a
magnificent yellow. His skin is of just the hue and
apparent texture of some old crumpled Oriental scroll.
I know a dozen painters who would give more than
they have to arrive at the exact “‘ tone ” of his thick-
veined, bloodless hands, his polished ivory knuckles.
His eyes are circled with red, but in the battered
little setting of their orbits they have the lustre of
old sapphires. His nose, owing to the falling away of
other portions of his face, has assumed a grotesque,
unnatural prominence ; it describes an immense arch,
gleaming like a piece of parchment stretched on ivory.
He has, apparently, all his teeth, but has swathed his
cranium in a dead black wig; of course he’s clean
shaven. In his dress he has a muffled, wadded look
and an apparent aversion to linen, inasmuch as none
is visible on his person. He seems neat enough, but
not fastidious. At first, as I say, I fancied him mon-
strously ugly ; but, on further acquaintance, I per-
ceived that what I had taken for ugliness is nothing
but the incomplete remains of remarkable good looks.
The line of his features is pure; his nose, ceteris
paribus, would be extremely handsome ; his eyes are
the oldest eyes I ever saw, and yet they are wonder-
fullyliving. He has something remarkably insinuating.

He offered his two hands as Theodore introduced
me; I gave him my own, and he stood smiling at
me like some quaint old image in ivory and ebony,
scanning my face with a curiosity which he took no
pains to conceal. “‘ God bless me,’ he said at last,
“ how much you look like your father! ’’ Isat down,
and for half an hour we talked of many things—of
my journey, of my impressions of America, of my
reminiscences of Europe, and, by implication, of my
prospects. His voice is weak and cracked, but he

217

A LIGHT MAN

makes it express everything. Mr. Sloane is not yet
in his dotage—oh no! He nevertheless makes him-
self out a poor creature. In reply to an inquiry of
mine about his health, he favoured me with a long
list of his infirmities (some of which are very trying,
certainly) and assured me that he was quite finished.

“‘ T live out of mere curiosity,”’ he said.

“TI have heard of people dying from the same
motive.”’

He looked at me a moment, as if to ascertain
whether I were laughing at him. And then, after
a pause, “‘ Perhaps you don’t know that I disbelieve
in a future life,’’ he remarked, blandly.

At these words Theodore got up and walked to
the fire.

“Well, we shan’t quarrel about that,” said I.
Theodore turned round, staring.

“Do you mean that you agree with me?”’ the old
man asked.

“I certainly haven’t come here to talk theology !
Don’t ask me to disbelieve, and I’ll never ask you to
believe.”

““Come,”’ cried Mr. Sloane, rubbing his hands,
“you'll not persuade me you are a Christian—like
your friend Theodore there.”’

“Like Theodore —assuredly not.’’ And _ then,
somehow, I don’t know why, at the thought of
Theodore’s Christianity I burst into a laugh. ‘“ Ex-
cuse me, my dear fellow,’’ I said, “ you know, for
the last ten years I have lived in pagan lands.”’

“What do you call pagan?” asked Theodore,
smiling.

I saw the old man with his hands locked, eyeing
me shrewdly, and waiting for my answer. I hesitated
a moment, and then I said, ‘‘ Everything that makes
life tolerable ! ”

Hereupon Mr. Sloane began to laugh till he coughed.

218

A LIGHT MAN

Verily, I thought, if he lives for curiosity, he’s easily
satisfied.

We went in to dinner, and this repast showed me
that some of his curiosity is culinary. I observed,
by the way, that for a victim of neuralgia, dyspepsia,
and a thousand other ills, Mr. Sloane plies a most
inconsequent knife and fork. Sauces and spices and
condiments seem to be the chief of his diet. After
dinner he dismissed us, in consideration of my natural
desire to see my friend in private. Theodore ‘has
capital quarters—a downy bedroom and a snug little
salon. We talked till near midnight—of ourselves, of
each other, and of the author of the mémoirs, down-
stairs. That is, I spoke of myself, and Theodore
listened ; and then Theodore descanted upon Mr.
Sloane, and I listened. His commerce with the old
man has sharpened his wits. Sloane has taught him
to observe and judge, and Theodore turns round,
observes, judges—him! He has become quite the
critic and analyst. There is something very pleasant
in the discriminations of a conscientious mind, in
which criticism is tempered by an angelic charity.
Only, it may easily end by acting on one’s nerves.
At midnight we repaired to the library, to take leave
of our host till the morrow—an attention which,
under all circumstances, he rigidly exacts. As I gave
him my hand he held it again and looked at me as
he had done on my arrival. ‘ Bless my soul,” he
said at last, “‘ how much you look like your mother f ’’

To-night, at the end of my third day, I begin to
feel decidedly at home. The fact is, I am remarkably
comfortable. The house is pervaded by an indefin-
able, irresistible air of luxury and privacy. Mr.
Frederick Sloane is a horribly corrupt old mortal.
Already, in his relaxing presence, I have become
heartily reconciled to doing nothing. But with
Theodore on one side—standing there like a tall

aig

A LIGHT MAN

interrogation-point—I honestly believe I can defy
Mr. Sloane on the other. The former asked me this
morning, with visible solicitude, in allusion to the bit
of dialogue I have quoted above on matters of faith,
whether I am really a materialist—whether I don’t
believe something ? I told him I would believe any-
thing he liked. He looked at me a while, in friendly
sadness. ‘I hardly know whether you are not worse
than Mr. Sloane,” he said.

But Theodore is, after all, in duty bound to give
aman a long rope in these matters. His own rope
is one of the longest. He reads Voltaire with Mr.
Sloane, and Emerson in his own room. He is the
stronger man of the two ; he has the larger stomach.
Mr. Sloane delights, of course, in Voltaire, but he
can’t read a line of Emerson. Theodore delights in
Emerson, and enjoys Voltaire, though he thinks him
superficial. It appears that since we parted in Paris,
five years ago, his conscience has dwelt in many lands.
C’est toute une histoire—which he tells very prettily.
He left college determined to enter the church, and
came abroad with his mind full of theology and
Tiibingen. He appears to have studied, not wisely,
but too well. Instead of faith full-armed and serene,
there sprang from the labour of his brain a myriad
sickly questions, piping for answers. He went for a
winter to Italy, where, I take it, he was not quite
so much afflicted as he ought to have been at the
sight of the beautiful spiritual repose that he had
missed. It was after this that we spent those three
months together in Brittany—the best-spent months
of my long residence in Europe. Theodore inoculated
me, I think, with some of his seriousness, and I just
touched him with my profanity; and we agreed
together that there were a few good things left—
health, friendship, a summer sky, and the lovely
byways of an old French province. He came home,

220

A LIGHT MAN

searched the Scriptures once more, accepted a “ call,”’
and made an attempt to respond to it. But the
inner voice failed him. His outlook was cheerless
enough. During his absence his married sister, the
older one, had taken the other to live with her,
relieving Theodore of the charge of contribution to
her support. But suddenly, behold the husband, the
brother-in-law, dies, leaving a mere figment of pro-
perty ; and the two ladies, with their two little girls,
are afloat in the wide world. Theodore finds himself
at twenty-six without an income, without a profession,
and with a family of four females to support. Well,
in his quiet way he draws on his courage. The
history of the two years that passed before he came
to Mr. Sloane is really absolutely edifying. He
rescued his sisters and nieces from the deep waters,
placed them high and dry, established them some-
where in decent gentility—and then found at last
that his strength had left him—had dropped dead,
like an over-ridden horse. In short, he had worked
himself to the bone. It was now his sisters’ turn.
They nursed him with all the added tenderness of
gratitude for the past and terror of the future, and
brought him safely through a grievous malady.
Meanwhile Mr. Sloane, having decided to treat him-
self to a private secretary and suffered dreadful
mischance in three successive experiments, had heard
of Theodore’s situation and his merits; had further-
more recognised in him the son of an early and
intimate friend, and had finally offered him the very
comfortable position he now occupies. There is a
decided incongruity between Theodore as a man—
as Theodore, in fine—and the dear fellow as the
intellectual agent, confidant, complaisant, purveyor,
pander—what you will—of a battered old cynic and
dilettante—a worldling if there ever was one. There
seems at first sight a perfect want of agreement
221

A LIGHT MAN

between his character and his function. One is gold
and the other brass, or something very like it. But,
on reflexion, I can enter into it—his having, under
the circumstances, accepted Mr. Sloane’s offer and
been content to do his duties. Ce que c’est que de
nous ! Theodore’s contentment in such a case is a
theme for the moralist—a better moralist thanI. The
best and purest mortals are an odd mixture, and in
none of us does honesty exist on its own terms.
Ideally, Theodore hasn’t the smallest business dans
cette galére. It offends my sense of propriety to find
him here. I feel that I ought to notify him, as a
friend, that he has knocked at the wrong door, and
that he had better retreat before he is brought to the
blush. However, I suppose he might as well be here
as reading Emerson, ‘“‘ evenings,’’ in the back parlour,
to those two very ugly sisters—judging from their
photographs. Practically it hurts no one not to be
too much of a prig. Poor Theodore was weak, de-
pressed, out of work. Mr. Sloane offers him a lodging
and a salary in return for—after all, merely a little
tact. All he has to do is to read to the old man, lay
down the book a while, with his finger in the place,
and let him talk; take it up again, read another
dozen pages and submit to another commentary.
Then to write a dozen pages under his dictation—
to suggest a word, polish off a period, or help him
out with a complicated idea or a half-remembered
fact. This is all, I say; and yet this is much.
Theodore’s apparent success proves it to be much, as
well as the old man’s satisfaction. It is a part; he
has to simulate. He has to “ make believe ” a little
—a good deal; he has to put his pride in his pocket
and send his conscience to the wash. He has to be
accommodating—to listen and pretend and flatter ;
and he does it as well as many a worse man—does
it far better than I. I might bully the old man, but
222

A LIGHT MAN

I don’t think I could humour him. After all, how-
ever, it is not a matter of comparative merit. In
every son of woman there are two men—the practical
man and the dreamer. We live for our dreams—
but, meanwhile, we live by our wits. When the
dreamer is a poet, the other fellow is an artist.
Theodore, at bottom, is only a man of taste. If he
were not destined to become a high priest among
moralists, he might be a prince among connoisseurs.
He plays his part, therefore, artistically, with spirit,
with originality, with all his native refinement. How
can Mr. Sloane fail to believe that he possesses a
paragon? He is no such fool as not to appreciate
a nature distinguée when it comes in his way. He
confidentially assured me this morning that Theodore
has the most charming mind in the world, but that
it’s a pity he’s so simple as not to suspect it. If he
only doesn’t ruin him with his flattery !

19th.—I am certainly fortunate among men. This
morning when, tentatively, I spoke of going away,
Mr. Sloane rose from his seat in horror and declared
that for the present I must regard his house as my
home. ‘‘ Come, come,’ he said, ‘when you leave
this place where do you intend to go?’”’ Where,
indeed? I graciously allowed Mr. Sloane to have
the best of the argument. Theodore assures me that
he appreciates these and other affabilities, and that
I have made what he calls a “‘ conquest” of his
venerable heart. Poor, battered, bamboozled old
organ ! he would have one believe that it has a most
tragical record of capture and recapture. At all
events, it appears that I am master of the citadel.
For the present I have no wish to evacuate. I feel,
nevertheless, in some far-off corner of my soul, that
I ought to shoulder my victorious banner and advance
to more fruitful triumphs.

I blush for my beastly laziness. It isn’t that I

223

A LIGHT MAN

am willing to stay here a month, but that I am willing
to stay here six. Such is the charming, disgusting
truth. Have I really outlived the age of energy ?
Have I survived my ambition, my integrity, my self-
respect ? Verily, I ought to have survived the habit
of asking myself silly questions. I made up my
mind long ago to go in for nothing but present success,
and I don’t care for that sufficiently to secure it at
the cost of temporary suffering. I have a passion
for nothing—not even for life. I know very well the
appearance I make in the world. I pass for a clever,
accomplished, capable, good-natured fellow, who can
do anything if he would only try. I am supposed to
be rather cultivated, to have latent talents. When
I was younger I used to find a certain entertainment
in the spectacle of human affairs. I liked to see men
and women hurrying on each other’s heels across the
stage. But I am sick and tired of them now; not
that I am a misanthrope, God forbid! They are not
worth hating. I never knew but one creature who
was, and her I went and loved. To be consistent, I
ought to have hated my mother, and now I ought to
detest Theodore. But I don’t—truly, on the whole,
I don’t—any more than.I dote on him. I firmly
believe that it makes a difference to him, his idea
that I am fond of him. He believes in that, as he
believes in all the rest of it—in my culture, my latent
talents, my underlying ‘‘ earnestness,’’ my sense of
beauty and love of truth. Oh, for a man among
them all—a fellow with eyes in his head—eyes that
would know me for what I am and let me see they
had guessed it! Possibly such a fellow as that might
get a “‘rise’”’ out of me.

In the name of bread and butter, what am I to
do? (I was obliged this morning to borrow fifty
dollars from Theodore, who remembered gleefully that
he has been owing me a trifling sum for the past four

224

A LIGHT MAN

years, and in fact has preserved a note to this effect.)
Within the last week I have hatched a desperate
plan: I have made up my mind to take a wife—
a rich one, bien entendu. Why not accept the goods
of the gods? It is not my fault, after all, if I pass
for a good fellow. Why not admit that practically,
mechanically—as I may say—maritally, I may be a
good fellow ? I warrant myself kind. I should never
beat my wife ; I don’t think I should even contradict
her. Assume that her fortune has the proper number
of zeros and that she herself is one of them, and I can
even imagine her adoring me. I really think this is
my only way. Curiously, as I look back upon my
brief career, it all seems to tend to this consummation.
It has its graceful curves and crooks, indeed, and here
and there a passionate tangent ; but, on the whole,
if I were to unfold it here @ Ja Hogarth, what better
legend could I scrawl beneath the series of pictures
than So-and-so’s Progress to a Mercenary Marriage ?
Coming events do what we all know with their
shadows. My noble fate is, perhaps, not far off.
I already feel throughout my person a magnificent
languor—as from the possession of many dollars. Or
is it simply my sense of well-being in this perfectly
appointed house? Is it simply the contact of the
highest civilisation I have known? At all events,
the place is of velvet, and my only complaint of
Mr. Sloane is that, instead of an old widower, he’s
not an old widow (or a young maid), so that I might
marry him, survive him, and dwell for ever in this
rich and mellow home. As I write here, at my bed-
room table, I have only to stretch out an arm and
raise the window-curtain, to see the thick-planted
garden budding and breathing and growing in the
silvery silence. Far above, in the liquid darkness,
rolls the brilliant ball of the moon; beneath, in its
light, lies the lake, in murmuring, troubled sleep ;
225 Q

A LIGHT MAN

round about, the mountains, looking strange and
blanched, seem to bare their heads and undrape their
shoulders. So much for midnight. To-morrow the
scene will be lovely with the beauty of day. Under
one aspect or another I have it always before me.
At the end of the garden is moored a boat, in which
Theodore and I have indulged in an immense deal of
irregular navigation. What lovely landward coves
and bays—what alder-smothered creeks—what lily-
sheeted pools—what sheer steep hillsides, making the
water dark and quiet where they hang! I confess
that in these excursions Theodore looks after the
boat and I after the scenery. Mr. Sloane avoids the
water—on account of the dampness, he says ; because
he’s afraid of drowning, I suspect.

22nd.—Theodore is right. The bonhomme has
taken me into his favour. I protest I don’t see how
he was to escape it. Je l’as bien soigné, as they say
in Paris. I don’t blush for it. In one coin or another
I must repay his hospitality—which is certainly very
liberal. Theodore dots his 3’s, crosses his #’s, verifies
his quotations; while I set traps for that famous
“ curiosity.’’ This speaks vastly well for my powers.
He pretends to be surprised at nothing, and to possess
in perfection—poor, pitiable old fop—the art of keep-
ing his countenance ; but repeatedly, I know, I have
made him stare. As for his corruption, which I spoke
of above, it’s a very pretty piece of wickedness, but
it strikes me as a purely intellectual matter. I
imagine him never to have had any positive senses.
He may have been unclean; morally, he’s not very
tidy now; but he never can have been what the
French call a viveury. He’s too delicate, he’s of a
feminine turn; and what woman was ever a viveur ?
He likes to sit in his chair and read scandal, talk
scandal, make scandal, so far as he may without
catching a cold or bringing on a headache. I already

226

A LIGHT MAN

feel as if I had known him a lifetime. I read him
as clearly as if I had. I know the type to which he
belongs ; I have encountered, first and last, a good
many specimens of it. He’s neither more nor less
than a gossip—a gossip flanked by a coxcomb and
an egotist. He’s shallow, vain, cold, superstitious,
timid, pretentious, capricious : a pretty list of foibles !
And yet, for all this, he has his good points. His
Caprices are sometimes generous, and his rebellion
against the ugliness of life frequently makes him do
kind things. His memory (for trifles) is remarkable,
and (where his own performances are not involved)
his taste is excellent. He has no courage for evil,
more than for good. He is the victim, however, of
more illusions with regard to himself than I ever
knew a single brain to shelter. At the age of twenty,
poor, ignorant, and remarkably handsome, he married
a woman of immense wealth, many years his senior.
At the end of three years she very considerately took
herself off and left him to the enjoyment of his free-
dom and riches. If he had remained poor he might
from time to time have rubbed at random against
the truth, and would be able to recognise the touch
of it. But he wraps himself in his money as in a
wadded dressing-gown, and goes trundling through
life on his little gold wheels. The greater part of his
career, from the time of his marriage till about ten
years ago, was spent in Europe, which, superficially,
he knows very well. He has lived in fifty places,
known thousands of people, and spent a very large
fortune. At one time, I believe, he spent consider-
ably too much, trembled for an instant on the verge
of a pecuniary crash, but recovered himself, and found
himself more frightened than hurt, yet audibly re-
commended to lower his pitch. He passed five years
in a species of penitent seclusion on the lake of—
I forget what (his genius seems to be partial to lakes),
227

A LIGHT MAN

and laid the basis of his present magnificent taste for
literature. I can’t call him anything but magnificent
in this respect, so long as he must have his punctua-
tion done by a nature distinguée. At the close of this
period, by economy, he had made up his losses. His
turning the screw during those relatively impecunious
years represents, I am pretty sure, the only act of
resolution of his life. It was rendered possible by his
morbid, his actually pusillanimous dread of poverty ;
he doesn’t feel safe without half a million between
him and starvation. Meanwhile he had turned from
a young man into an old man ; his health was broken,
his spirit was jaded, and I imagine, to do him justice,
that he began to feel certain natural, filial longings
for this dear American mother of us all. They say
the most hopeless truants and triflers have come to
it. He came to it, at all events; he packed up his
books and pictures and gimcracks, and bade farewell
to Europe. This house which he now occupies be-
longed to his wife’s estate. She had, for sentimental
reasons of her own, commended it to his particular
care. On his return he came to see it, liked it, turned
a parcel of carpenters and upholsterers into it, and
by inhabiting it for nine years transformed it into
the perfect dwelling which I find it. Here he has
spent all his time, with the exception of a usual
winter’s visit to New York—a practice recently dis-
continued, owing to the increase of his ailments and
the projection of these famous memoirs. His life has
finally come to be passed in comparative solitude.
He tells of various distant relatives, as well as inti-
mate friends of both sexes, who used formerly to be
entertained at his cost; but with each of them, in
the course of time, he seems to have succeeded in
quarrelling. Throughout life, evidently, he has had
capital fingers for plucking off parasites. Rich, lonely,
and vain, he must have been fair game for the race
228

A LIGHT MAN

of social sycophants and cormorants; and it’s much
to the credit of his sharpness, and that instinct of
self-defence which nature bestows even on the weak,
that he has not been despoiled and exploité. Appar-
ently they have all been bunglers. I maintain that
something is to be done with him still. But one
must work in obedience to certain definite laws.
Doctor Jones, his physician, tells me, in point of fact,
he has had for the past ten years an unbroken series
of favourites, protégés, heirs presumptive ; but that
each, in turn, by some fatally false movement, has
spilled his pottage. The doctor declares, moreover,
that they were mostly very common people. Gradu-
ally the old man seems to have developed a preference
for two or three strictly exquisite intimates, over a
throng of your vulgar pensioners. His tardy literary
schemes, too—fruit of his all but sapless senility—have
absorbed more and more of his time and attention.
The end of it all is, therefore, that Theodore and I have
him quite to ourselves, and that it behoves us to hold
our porringers straight.

Poor, pretentious old simpleton! It’s not his fault,
after all, that he fancies himself a great little man.
How are you to judge of the stature of mankind
when men have for ever addressed you on their
knees ? Peace and joy to his innocent fatuity! He
believes himself the most rational of men; in fact,
he’s the most superstitious. He fancies himself a
philosopher, an inquirer, a discoverer. He has not
yet discovered that he is a humbug, that Theodore
is a prig, and that I am an adventurer. He prides
himself on his good manners, his urbanity, his know-
ing a rule of conduct for every occasion in life. My
private impression is that his skinny old bosom con-
tains unsuspected treasures of impertinence. He
takes his stand on his speculative audacity—his
direct, undaunted gaze at the universe ; in truth, his

229

A LIGHT MAN

mind is haunted by a hundred dingy old-world
spectres and theological phantasms. He imagines
himself one of the most solid of men ; he is essentially
one of the hollowest. He thinks himself ardent,
impulsive, passionate, magnanimous — capable of
boundless enthusiasm for an idea or a sentiment. It
is clear to me that on no occasion of disinterested
action can he ever have done anything in time. He
believes, finally, that he has drained the cup of life
to the dregs; that he has known, in its bitterest
intensity, every emotion of which the human spirit
is capable; that he has loved, struggled, suffered.
Mere vanity, all of it. He has never loved any one
but himself; he has never suffered from anything
but an undigested supper or an exploded pretension ;
he has never touched with the end of his lips the
vulgar bowl from which the mass of mankind quafts
its floods of joy and sorrow. Well, the long and
short of it all is, that I honestly pity him. He may
have given sly knocks in his life, but he can’t hurt
any one now. I pity his ignorance, his weakness, his
pusillanimity. He has tasted the real sweetness of
life no more than its bitterness ; he has never dreamed,
nor experimented, nor dared; he has never known
any but mercenary affection ; neither men nor women
have risked ought for k#m—for his good spirits, his
good looks, his empty pockets. How I should like to
give him, for once, a real sensation |!

26th.—I took a row this morning with Theodore
a couple of miles along the lake, to a point where
we went ashore and lounged away an hour in the
sunshine, which is still very comfortable. Poor
Theodore seems troubled about many things. For
one, he is troubled about me; he is actually more
anxious about my future than I myself; he thinks
better of me than I do of myself ; he is so deucedly
conscientious, so scrupulous, so averse to giving offence

230

A LIGHT MAN

or to brusquer any situation before it has played itself
out, that he shrinks from betraying his apprehensions
or asking direct questions. But I know that he
would like very much to extract from me some in-
timation that there is something under the sun I
should like to do. I catch myself in the act of taking
—heaven forgive me !—a half-malignant joy in con-
founding his expectations—leading his generous sym-
pathies off the scent by giving him momentary
glimpses of my latent wickedness. But in Theodore
I have so firm a friend that I shall have a considerable
job if I ever find it needful to make him change his
mind about me. He admires me—that’s absolute ;
he takes my low moral tone for an eccentricity of
genius, and it only imparts an extra flavour—a haut
goti—to the charm of my intercourse. Nevertheless,
I can see that he is disappointed. I have even less
to show, after all these years, than he had hoped.
Heaven help us, little enough it must strike him as
being! What a contradiction there is in our being
friends at all! I believe we shall end with hating
each other. It’s all very well now—our agreeing to
differ, for we haven’t opposed interests. But if we
should really clash, the situation would be warm! I
wonder, as it is, that Theodore keeps his patience
with me. His education since we parted should tend
logically to make him despise me. He has studied,
thought, suffered, loved—loved those very plain sisters
and nieces. Poor me! how should I be virtuous?
I have no sisters, plain or pretty !—nothing to love,
work for, live for. My good Theodore, if you are
going one of these days to despise me and drop me—
in the name of comfort, come to the point at once,
and make an end of our state of tension.

He is troubled, too, about Mr. Sloane. His atti-
tude towards the bonhomme quite passes my compre-
hension. It’s the queerest jumble of contraries. He

231 '

A LIGHT MAN

penetrates him, disapproves of him—yet respects and
admires him. It all comes of the poor boy’s shrink-
ing New England conscience. He’s afraid to give his
perceptions a fair chance, lest, forsooth, they should
look over his neighbour’s wall. He'll not understand
that he may as well sacrifice the old reprobate for
a lamb as for a sheep. His view of the gentleman,
therefore, is a perfect tissue of cobwebs—a jumble of
half-way sorrows, and wire-drawn charities, and hair-
breadth ‘scapes from utter damnation, and sudden
platitudes of generosity—fit, all of it, to make an
angel curse |!

‘““The man’s a perfect egotist and ass,” say I,
“but I like him.” Now Theodore likes him—or
rather wants to like him; but he can’t reconcile it
to his self-respect—fastidious deity !—to like an ass.
Why the deuce can’t he leave it alone altogether ?
It’s a purely practical matter. He ought to do the
duties of his place all the better for having his head
clear of officious sentiment. I don’t believe in dis-
interested service; and Theodore is too desperately
bent on preserving his disinterestedness. With me
it’s different. I am perfectly free to love the bon-
homme—for an ass. I am neither a scribe nor a
Pharisee ; I am simply a student of the art of life.

And then, Theodore is troubled about his sisters ;
he’s afraid he’s not doing his duty by them. He
thinks he ought to be with them—to be getting a
larger salary—to be teaching his nieces. I am not
versed in such questions. Perhaps he ought !

May 3rd.—This morning Theodore sent me word
that he was ill and unable to get up; upon which
I immediately went in to see him. He had caught
cold, was sick and a little feverish. I urged him to
make no attempt to leave his room, and assured him
that I would do what I could to reconcile Mr. Sloane
to his absence. This I found an easy matter. I read

232

A LIGHT MAN

to him for a couple of hours, wrote four letters—one
in French—and then talked for a while—a good
while. I have done more talking, by the way, in the
last fortnight than in any previous twelve months—
much of it, too, none of the wisest, nor, I may add,
of the most superstitiously veracious. In a little
discussion, two or three days ago, with Theodore, I
came to the point and let him know that in gossiping
with Mr. Sloane I made no scruple, for our common
satisfaction, of ‘‘ colouring ’’ more or less. My con-
fession gave him that “ turn,’’ as Mrs. Gamp would
say, that his present illness may be the result of it.
Nevertheless, poor dear fellow, I trust he will be on
his legs to-morrow. This afternoon, somehow, I found
myself really in the humour of talking. There was
something propitious in the circumstances: a hard,
cold rain without, a wood-fire in the library, the
bonhomme puffing cigarettes in his arm-chair, beside
him a portfolio of newly-imported prints and photo-
graphs, and—Theodore tucked safely away in bed.
Finally, when I brought our #éte-d-téle to a close
(taking good care not to overstay my welcome) Mr.
Sloane seized me by both hands and honoured me
with one of his venerable grins. ‘‘ Max,’’ he said—
“you must let me call you Max—you are the most
delightful man I ever knew.”

Verily, there’s some virtuc left in me yet. I believe
I almost blushed.

“Why didn’t I know you ten years ago?” the
old man went on. ‘“‘ There are ten years lost.”

“Ten years ago I was not worth your knowing,”
Max remarked.

“‘ But I did know you! ” cried the bonhomme. ‘I
knew you in knowing your mother.”

Ah! my mother again. When the old man begins
that chapter it’s all I can do not to tell him to blow
out his candle and go to bed.

233

A LIGHT MAN

‘* At all events,’’ he continued, ‘“‘ we must make
the most of the years that remain. I am a rotten
old carcass, but I have no intention of dying. You
won't get tired of me and want to go away ? ”’

“IT am devoted to you, sir,’ I said. ‘“‘ But I must
be looking for some occupation, you know.”

‘Occupation ? bother! I will give you occupa-
tion. I will give you wages.”

‘““T am afraid that you will want to give me the
wages without the work.’’ And then I declared that
I must go up and look at poor Theodore.

The bonhomme still kept my hands. ‘I wish very
much that I could get you to be as fond of me as
you are of poor Theodore.”

‘‘ Ah, don’t talk about fondness, Mr. Sloane. I
don’t deal much in that article.”

‘“‘ Don’t you like my secretary ? ”

“‘ Not as he deserves.”’

‘“‘ Nor as he likes you, perhaps ? ”’

‘‘ He likes me more than I deserve.”

‘* Well, Max,’’ my host pursued, ‘‘ we can be good
friends all the same. We don’t need a hocus-pocus
of false sentiment. We are men, aren’t we ?—men of
sublime good sense.’’ And just here, as the old man
looked at me, the pressure of his hands deepened to
a convulsive grasp, and the bloodless mask of his
countenance was suddenly distorted with a nameless
fear. ‘‘ Ah, my dear young man,” he cried, “ come
and be a son to me—the son of my age and desolation !
For God’s sake, don’t leave me to pine and die
alone | ”’

I was greatly surprised, and I may add consider-
ably moved. Is it true, then, that this dilapidated
organism contains such measureless depths of sen-
sibility ? He has evidently a mortal fear of death.
I assured him on my honour that he may henceforth
call upon me for any service.

234

A LIGHT MAN

8th.—Theodore’s little turn proved more serious
than I expected. He has been confined to his room
till to-day. This evening he came down to the library
in his dressing-gown. Decidedly, Mr. Sloane is an
eccentric, but hardly as Theodore thinks, a superior
one. There is something extremely curious in his
humours and caprices—the incongruous fits and starts,
as it were, of his taste. For some reason, best known
to himself, he took it into his head to regard it as a
want of delicacy, of respect, of savotr-vivre—of heaven
knows what—that poor Theodore, who is still weak
and languid, should enter the sacred precinct of his
study in the vulgar drapery of a dressing-gown. The
sovereign trouble with the bonhomme is an absolute
lack of the instinct of justice. He’s of the real
feminine turn—I believe I have written it before—
without the redeeming fidelity of the sex. I honestly
believe that I might come into his study in my night-
shirt and he would smile at it as a picturesque
déshabillé. But for poor Theodore to-night there was
nothing but scowls and frowns, and barely a civil
inquiry about his health. But poor Theodore is not
such a fool, either ; he will not die of a snubbing; I
never said he was a weakling. Once he fairly saw
from what quarter the wind blew he bore the master’s
brutality with the utmost coolness and gallantry.
Can it be that Mr. Sloane really wishes to drop him ?
The delicious old brute! He understands favour and
friendship only as a selfish rapture—a reaction, an
infatuation, an act of aggressive, exclusive patronage.
It’s not a bestowal, with him, but a transfer, and
half his pleasure in causing his sun to shine is that—
being woefully near its setting—it will produce certain
long fantastic shadows. He wants to cast my shadow,
I suppose, over Theodore ; but fortunately I am not
altogether an opaque body. Since Theodore was
taken ill he has been into his room but once, and has

235

A LIGHT MAN

sent him none but a dry little message or two. I too
have been much less attentive than I should have
wished to be; but my time has not been my own.
It has been, every moment of it, at the disposal of
my host. He actually runs after me, he clings to me,
he makes a fool of himself, and is trying hard to make
one of me. I find that he will bear—that, in fact, he
actually enjoys—a sort of unexpected contradiction.
He likes anything that will tickle his fancy, give an
unusual tone to our relations, remind him of certain
historical characters whom he thinks he resembles.
I have stepped into Theodore’s shoes, and done—
with what I feel in my bones to be very inferior skill
and taste—all the reading, writing, condensing, tran-
scribing and advising that he has been accustomed to
do. I have driven with the bonhomme, played chess
and cribbage with him, beaten him, bullied him,
contradicted him, forced him into going out on the
water under my charge. Who shall say, after this,
that I haven't done my best to discourage his ad-
vances, put myself in a bad light ? As yet, my efforts
are vain ; in fact, they quite turn to my own con-
fusion. Mr. Sloane is so thankful at having escaped
from the lake with his life that he looks upon me as
a preserver and protector. Confound it all; it’s a
bore! But one thing is certain, it can’t last for ever.
Admit that he has cast Theodore out and taken me
in; he will speedily discover that he has made a
pretty mess of it, and that he had much better have
left well enough alone. He likes my reading and
writing now, but in a month he will begin to hate
them. He will miss Theodore’s better temper and
better knowledge—his healthy impersonal judgement.
What an advantage that well-regulated youth has
over me, after all! I am for days, he is for years ;
he for the long run, I for the short. I, perhaps, am
intended for success, but he is adapted for happiness.

230

A LIGHT MAN

He has in his heart a tiny, sacred particle which
leavens his whole being and keeps it pure and sound
—a faculty of admiration and respect. For him
human nature is still a wonder and a mystery; it
bears a divine stamp—Mr. Sloane’s tawdry composi-
tion as well as the rest.

13th.—I have refused, of course, to supplant
Theodore further in the exercise of his functions, and
he has resumed his morning labours with Mr. Sloane.
I, on my side, have spent these dewy hours in scouring
the country on that capital black mare, the use of
which is one of the perquisites of Theodore’s place.
The days have been magnificent—the heat of the sun
tempered by a murmuring, wandering wind, the whole
north a mighty ecstasy of sound and verdure, the sky
a far-away vault of warm blue air. Not far from the
mill at M———, the other end of the lake, I met, for
the third time, that very pretty girl who reminds me
so forcibly of Antoinette. She makes so lavish a use
of her eyes that I ventured to stop and bid her good-
morning. She seems nothing loath to an acquaint-
ance. She’s a fearful barbarian in speech, but the
eyes are quite articulate. These rides do me good ;
I was growing too pensive.

There is something the matter with Theodore ; his
illness seems to have left him strangely affected. He
has fits of silent stiffness, alternating with spasms of
extravagant gaiety. He avoids me at times for hours
together, and then he comes and looks at me with an
inscrutable smile, as if he were on the verge of a
burst of confidence—which again is swallowed up in
the immensity of his dumbness. Is he hatching some
astounding benefit to his specie¢? Is he working to
bring about my removal to a higher sphere of action ?
Nous verrons bien.

_ 18th.—Theodore threatens departure. He received
this morning a letter from one of his sisters—the young

237

A LIGHT MAN :

Dora—announcing her engagement to a clergyman
whose acquaintance she has recently made, and in-
timating her expectation of an immediate union with
the gentleman—a ceremony which would require
Theodore’s attendance. Theodore, in high good
humour, read the letter aloud at breakfast—and, to
tell the truth, it was a charming epistle. He then
spoke of his having to go on to the wedding, a pro-
position to which Mr. Sloane graciously assented—
much more than assented. “I shall be sorry to lose
you, after so happy a connexion,” said the old man.
Theodore turned pale, stared a moment, and then,
recovering his colour and his composure, declared that
he should have no objection in life to coming back.

“Bless your soul!” cried the bonhomme, “ you
don’t mean to say you will leave your other sister all
alone ? ”’

To which Theodore replied that he would arrange
for her and her little girl to live with the married
pair. “It’s the only proper thing,’ he remarked, as
if it were quite settled. Has it come to this, then,
that Mr. Sloane actually wants to turn him out of
the house’? The shameless old villain! He keeps
smiling an uncanny smile, which means, as I read
it, that if the poor young man once departs he
shall never return on the old footing—for all his
impudence |!

20th.—This morning, at breakfast, we had a terrific
scene. A letter arrives for Theodore; he opens it,
turns white and red, frowns, falters, and then informs
us that the young Dora has broken off her engage-
ment. No wedding, therefore, and no departure for
Theodore. The old man was furious. In his fury he
took the liberty of calling the delle capricteuse a very
exaggerated name. Theodore rebuked him, with per-
fect good taste, and kept his temper.

* If my opinions don’t suit you, Mr. Lisle,”’ the

238

A LIGHT MAN

old man broke out, ‘‘ and my mode of expressing
them displeases you, you know you can easily protect
yourself.”

““My dear Mr. Sloane,” said Theodore, ‘‘ your
opinions, as a general thing, interest me deeply, and
have never ceased to act beneficially upon the forma-
tion of my own. Your mode of expressing them is
always brilliant, and I wouldn’t for the world, after
all our pleasant intercourse, separate from you in
bitterness. Only, I repeat, your qualification of my
sister’s conduct is quite too precipitate. If you knew
her, you would be the first to admit it.”’

There was something in Theodore’s look and
manner, as he said these words, which puzzled me all
the morning. After dinner, finding myself alone with
him, I told him I was glad he was not obliged to go
away. He looked at me with the mysterious smile
I have mentioned, thanked me, and fell into medita-
tion. As this bescribbled chronicle is the record of
my béttses as well as my happy strokes, I needn’t
hesitate to say that for a moment I was a good deal
vexed. What business has this angel of candour to
deal in signs and portents, to look unutterable things ?
What right has he to do so with me especially, in
whom he has always professed an absolute confidence ?
Just as I was about to cry out, ‘‘ Come, my dear
fellow, this affectation of mystery has lasted quite
long enough—favour me at last with the result of
your cogitations | ’’—as I was on the point of thus
expressing my impatience of his ominous behaviour,
the oracle at last addressed itself to utterance.

“ You see, my dear Max,” he said, “I can’t, in
justice to myself, go away in obedience to the sort of
notice that was served on me this morning. What
do you think of my actual footing here ? ”’

Theodore’s actual footing here seems to me im-
possible ; of course I said so.

239

A LIGHT MAN

“No, I assure you it’s not,” he answered. “I
should, on the contrary, feel very uncomfortable to
think that I had come away, except by my own
choice. You see a man can’t afford to cheapen him-
self. What are you laughing at?”

‘“‘ I am laughing, in the first place, my dear fellow,
to hear on your lips the language of cold calculation ;
-and, in the second place, at your odd notion of the
process by which a man keeps himself up in the
market.”

‘“‘T assure you it’s the correct system. I came
here as a particular favour to Mr. Sloane; it was
expressly understood so. The sort of work was odious
to me; I had regularly to break myself in. I had
to trample on my convictions, preferences, prejudices.
I don’t take such things easily; I take them hard ;
and when once the effort has been made I can’t
consent to have it wasted. If Mr. Sloane needed me
then, he needs me still. I am ignorant of any change
having taken place in his intentions, or in his means
of satisfying them. I came, not to amuse him, but
to do a certain work; I hope to remain until the
work is completed. To go away sooner is to make a
confession of incapacity which, I protest, costs me
too much. Iam too conceited, if you like.”

Theodore spoke these words with a face which I
have never seen him wear—a fixed, mechanical smile,
a hard, dry glitter in his eye, a harsh, strident tone
in his voice—in his whole physiognomy a gleam, as
it were, a note of defiance. Now I confess that for
defiance I have never been conscious of any especial
relish—when I am defied [ am beastly. ‘‘ My dear
man,” I replied, ‘“‘ your sentiments do you prodigious
credit. Your very ingenious theory of your present
situation, as well as your extremely pronounced sense
of your personal value, are calculated to insure you
a degree of practical success which can very well

240

A LIGHT MAN

dispense with the furtherance of my poor good wishes.”
Oh, the grimness of his visage as he listened to this,
and, I suppose I may add, the grimness of mine!
But I have ceased to be puzzled. Theodore’s con-
duct for the past ten days is suddenly illumined with
a backward, lurid ray. I will note down here a few
plain truths which it behoves me to take to heart—
commit to memory. Theodore is jealous of Maximus
Austin. Theodore hates the said Maximus. Theo-
dore has been seeking for the past three months to
see his name written, last but not least, in a certain
testamentary document: ‘“ Finally, I bequeath to
my dear young friend, Theodore Lisle, in return for
invaluable services and unfailing devotion, the bulk of
my property, real and personal, consisting of ———”’
(hereupon follows an exhaustive enumeration of
houses, lands, public securities, books, pictures, horses
and dogs). It is for this that he has toiled and
watched and prayed ; submitted to intellectual weari-
ness and spiritual torture ; accommodated himself to
levity, blasphemy and insult. For this he sets his
teeth and tightens his grasp; for this he’ll fight.
Dear me, it’s an immense weight off one’s mind !
There are nothing, then, but vulgar, common laws ;
no sublime exceptions, no transcendent anomalies.
Theodore’s a knave, a hypo——nay, nay; stay,
irreverent hand !—Theodore’s a man! Well, that’s
all I want. He wants to fight—he shall have it.
Have I got, at last, my simple, natural emotion ?
21st—I have lost no time. This evening, late,
after I had heard Theodore go to his room (I had
left the library early, on the pretext of having letters
to write), I repaired to Mr. Sloane, who had not yet
gone to bed, and informed him I should be obliged
to leave him at once, and pick up a subsistence some-
how in New York. He felt the blow; it brought
him straight down on his marrow-bones. He went

24% R

A LIGHT MAN

through the whole gamut of his arts and graces ; he
blustered, whimpered, entreated, flattered. He tried
to drag in Theodore’s name; but this, of course, I
prevented. But, finally, why, why, WHY, after all my
promises of fidelity, must I thus cruelly desert him ?
Then came my trump card: I have spent my last
penny ; while I stay, I’m a beggar. The remainder
of this extraordinary scene I have no power to de-
scribe: how the bonhomme, touched, inflamed, in-
spired, by the thought of my destitution, and at the
same time annoyed, perplexed, bewildered at having
to commit himself to doing anything for me, worked
himself into a nervous frenzy which deprived him of
a clear sense of the value of his words and his actions ;
how I, prompted by the irresistible spirit of my desire
to leap astride of his weakness and ride it hard to
the goal of my dreams, cunningly contrived to keep
his spirit at the fever- point, so that strength and
reason and resistance should burn themselves out. I
shall probably never again have such a sensation as
I enjoyed to-night — actually feel a heated human
heart throbbing and turning and struggling in my
grasp; know its pants, its spasms, its convulsions,
and its final senseless quiescence. At half-past one
o'clock Mr. Sloane got out of his chair, went to his
secretary, opened a private drawer, and took out a
folded paper. ‘‘ This is my will, made some seven
weeks ago. If you will stay with me I will destroy it.”’

“ Really, Mr. Sloane,” I said, “if you think my
purpose is to exert any pressure upon your testa-
mentary inclinations-——”’

“*T will tear it in pieces,” he cried ; “ I will burn
it up! I shall be as sick as a dog to-morrow; but I
will do it. A-a-h!”

He clapped his hand to his side, as if in sudden,
overwhelming pain, and sank back, fainting, into his
chair. A single glance assured me that he was un-

242

A LIGHT MAN

conscious. iI possessed myself of the paper, opened
it, and perceived that he had left everything to his
saintly secretary. For an instant a savage, puerile
feeling of hate popped up in my bosom, and I came
within a hair’s-breadth of obeying my foremost im-
pulse—that of stuffing the document into the fire,
Fortunately, my reason overtook my passion, though
for a moment it was an even race. I put the paper
back into the bureau, closed it, and rang the bell for
Robert (the old man’s servant). Before he came I
stood watching the poor, pale remnant of mortality
before me, and wondering whether those feeble life-
gasps were numbered. He was as white as a sheet,
grimacing with pain—hornbly ugly. Suddenly he
opened his eyes; they met my own; I fell on my
knees and took his hands. They closed on mine
with a grasp strangely akin to the rigidity of death.
Nevertheless, since then he has revived, and has
relapsed again into a comparatively healthy sleep.
Robert seems to know how to deal with him.

22nd.—Mr. Sloane is seriously ill—out of his mind
and unconscious of people’s identity. The doctor
has been here, off and on, all day, but this evening
reports improvement. I have kept out of the old
man’s room, and confined myself to my own, reflect-
ing largely upon the chance of his immediate death.
Does Theodore know of the will? Would it occur to
him to divide the property ? Would it occur to me,
in his place? We met at dinner, and talked in a
grave, desultory, friendly fashion. After all, he’s an
excellent fellow. I don’t hate him. I don’t even
dislike him. He jars on me, #1 m’agace; but that’s
no reason why I should do him an evil turn. Nor
shall I. The property is a fixed idea, that’s all. I
shall get it if can. We are fairly matched. Before
heaven, no, we are not fairly matched! Theodore
has a conscience.

243

A LIGHT MAN

23rd.—I am restless and nervous—and for good
reasons. Scribbling here keeps me quiet. This morn-
ing Mr. Sloane is better; feeble and uncertain in
mind, but unmistakably on the rise. I may confess
now that I feel relieved of a horrid burden. Last
night I hardly slept a wink. I lay awake listening
to the pendulum of my clock. It seemed to say,
“He lives—he dies.”’ I fully expected to hear it
stop suddenly at dies. But it kept going all the
morning, and to a decidedly more lively tune. In
the afternoon the old man sent for me. I found him
in his great muffled bed, with his face the colour of
damp chalk, and his eyes glowing faintly, like torches
half stamped out. I was forcibly struck with the
utter loneliness of his lot. For all human attendance
my villainous self grinning at his bedside and old
Robert without, listening, doubtless, at the keyhole.
The bonhomme stared at me stupidly ; then seemed
to know me, and greeted me with a sickly smile.
It was some moments before he was able to speak.
At last he faintly bade me to descend into the library,
open the secret drawer of the secretary (which he
contrived to direct me how to do), possess myself
of his will, and burn it up. He appears to have
forgotten his having taken it out the night before
last. I told him that I had an insurmountable
aversion to any personal dealings with the document.
He smiled, patted the back of my hand, and requested
me, in that case, to get it at least and bring it to
him. I couldn’t deny him that favour? No, I
couldn’t, indeed. I went down to the library, there-
fore, and on entering the room found Theodere stand-
ing by the fireplace with a bundle of papers. The
secretary was open. I stood still, looking from the
violated cabinet to the documents in his hand. Among
them I recognised, by its shape and size, the paper
of which I had intended to possess myself. Without

244 ,

A LIGHT MAN

delay I walked straight up to him. He looked sur-
prised, but not confused. ‘“‘ I am afraid I shall have
to trouble you to surrender one of those papers,’’ I
said.

‘“‘ Surrender, Maximus? To anything of your own
you are perfectly welcome. I didn’t know that you
made use of Mr. Sloane’s secretary. I was looking
for some pages of notes which I have myself made,
and in which I conceive I have a property.”

“This is what I want, mon vieux,” I said; and
I drew the will, unfolded, from between his hands.
As I did so his eyes fell upon the superscription,
“Last Will and Testament. March. F. S.” He
flushed an extraordinary crimson. Our eyes met.
Somehow—I don’t know how or why, or for that
matter why not—TI burst into a violent peal of
laughter. Theodore stood staring, with two hot,
bitter tears in his eyes.

“Of course you think I came to ferret out that
thing,”’ he said.

I shrugged my shoulders—those of my body only.
I confess, morally, I was on my knees with contrition,
but there was a fascination in it—a fatality. I re-
membered that in the hurry of my movements the
other evening I had slipped the will simply into one
of the outer drawers of the cabinet, among Theodore’s
own papers. ‘‘ Mr. Sloane sent me for it,’ I said.

“Very good ; I am glad to hear he’s well enough
to think of such things.”’

‘‘ He means to destroy it.”

‘“‘T hope, then, he has another made.”’

“‘ Mentally, I suppose he has.”

“Unfortunately, his weakness isn’t mental—or
exclusively so.’’

‘‘Oh, he will live to make a dozen more!” I
exclaimed. ‘‘Do you know the purport of this
one?”

245

A LIGHT MAN

Theodore’s colour by this time had died away into
plain white. He shook his head. The doggedness of
the movement provoked me, and I wished to excite
his curiosity. ‘‘ I have his commission to destroy it.”

Theodore smiled very grandly. ‘‘ It’s not a task
I envy you,” he remarked.

“IT should think not—especially if you knew the
import of the will.’’ He stood with folded arms, re-
garding me with his cold, detached eyes. I couldn’t
stand it. ‘‘ Come, it’s your property! You are sole
legatee. I give it up to you.” And I thrust the
paper into his hand.

He received it mechanically ; but after a pause,
bethinking himself, he unfolded it and cast his eyes
over the contents. Then he slowly smoothed it to-
gether and held it a moment with a tremulous hand.
“You say that Mr. Sloane directed you to destroy
it?” he finally inquired.

qt I say so.’”’

“And that you know the contents ? ”

“ Exactly.”

“ cri that you were about to do what he asked
you oo

“On the contrary, I declined.”

Theodore fixed his eyes for a moment on the
superscription and then raised them again to my face.
“Thank you, Max,’ he said. ‘“ You have left me a
real satisfaction.” He tore the sheet across and threw
the bits into the fire. We stood watching them burn.
** Now he can make another,” said Theodore.

““ Twenty others,”’ I replied.

“No, I have an idea you will take care of that.”

“ You are very bitter,”’ I said, sharply enough.

“‘ No, I am perfectly indifferent. Farewell!’’ And
he put out his hand.

“ Are you going away ? *

“ Of course Iam. Good-bye! ”’

246.

A LIGHT MAN

“‘ Good-bye, then. But isn’t your departure rather
sudden ? ”’

“I ought to have gone three weeks ago—three
weeks ago.” I had taken his hand, he pulled it away ;
his voice was trembling—there were tears in it.

“ Is that indifference ? ’’ I asked.

“It’s something you will never know !”’ he cried.
“It’s shame! I am not sorry you should see what
I feel. It will suggest to you, perhaps, that my heart
has never been in this filthy contest. Let me assure
you, at any rate, that it hasn’t; that it has had
nothing but scorn for the base perversion of my pride
and my ambition.. I could easily shed tears of joy
at their return—the return of the prodigals! Tears
of sorrow—sorrow——”’

He was unable to go on. He sank into a chair,
covering his face with his hands.

‘“‘ For God’s sake, stick to the joy !’’ I exclaimed.

He rose to his feet again. ‘‘ Well,’ he said, “ it
was for your sake that I parted with my self-respect ;
with your assistance I recover it.”

“‘ How for my sake ? ”

“‘ For whom but you would I have gone so far as
Idid? For what other purpose than that of keeping
our friendship whole would I have borne you com-
pany into this narrow pass? A man whom I cared
for less I would long since have parted with. You
were needed— you and something you have about
you that always takes me so—to bring me to this.
You ennobled, exalted, enchanted the struggle. I
aid value my prospect of coming into Mr. Sloane’s
property. I valued it for my poor sisters’ sake as
well as for my own, so long as it was the natural
reward of conscientious service, and not the prize of
hypocrisy and cunning. With another man than you
I never would have contested such a prize. But you
fascinated me, even as my rival. You played with

247

A LIGHT MAN

me, deceived me, betrayed me. I held my ground,
hoping you would see that what you were doing was
not fair. But if you have seen it, it has made no differ-
ence with you. For Mr. Sloane, from the moment
that, under your magical influence, he revealed his
nasty little nature, I had nothing but contempt.” °

“ And for me now ? ”

“Don’t ask me. I don’t trust myself.”

“‘ Hate, I suppose.”

“Ts that the best you can imagine? Farewell! ”’

‘Is it a serious farewell—farewell for ever ? ”’

““ How can there be any other ? ”

“I am sorry this should be your point of view.
It’s characteristic. All the more reason then that I
should say a word in self-defence. You accuse me
of having ‘ played with you, deceived you, betrayed
you.’ It seems to me that you are quite beside the
mark. You say you were such a friend of mine ; if
so, you ought to be one still. It was not to my fine
sentiments you attached yourself, for I never had
any or pretended to any. In anything I have done
recently, therefore, there has been no inconsistency.
I never pretended to take one’s friendships so seriously.
I don’t understand the word in the sense you attach
to it. I don’t understand the feeling of affection
between men. To me it means quite another thing.
You give it a meaning of your own; you enjoy the
profit of your invention ; it’s no more than just that
you should pay the penalty. Only it seems to me
rather hard that J should pay it.” Theodore re-
mained silent, but he looked quite sick. “‘ Is it still
a ‘serious farewell’ ?’’ I went on. ‘“‘It seems a
pity. After this clearing-up oughtn’t one to be on
rather better terms with you? No man can have a
deeper appreciation of your excellent parts, a keener
enjoyment of your society. I should very much
regret the loss of it.”

248

A LIGHT MAN

“‘ Have we, then, all this while understood each
other so little ? ’’ said Theodore.

“Don’t say ‘we’ and ‘each other.’ I think I
have understood you.”’

“Very likely. It’s not for my having kept any-
thing back.”

“Well, I do you justice. To me you have always
been over-generous. Try now and be just.”

Still he stood silent, with his cold, hard frown.
It was plain that if he was to come back to me, it
would be from the other world—if there be one!
What he was going to answer I know not. The door
opened, and Robert appeared, pale, trembling, his
eyes starting out of his head.

‘“‘T verily believe that poor Mr. Sloane is dead in
his bed | ’’ he cried.

There was a moment’s perfect silence. “‘ Amen,”’
saidI. ‘ Yes, old boy, try and bejust.” Mr. Sloane
had quietly died in my absence.

24th.—Theodore went up to town this morning,
having shaken hands with me in silence before he
started. Doctor Jones, and Brooks the attorney,
have been very officious, and by their advice I have
telegraphed to a certain Miss Meredith, a maiden-
lady, by their account the nearest of kin; or, in
other words, simply a discarded niece of the defunct.
She telegraphs back that she will arrive in person for
the funeral. I shall remain till she comes. I have
lost a fortune, but have I irretrievably lost a friend ?
I am sure I can’t say. Yes, I shall wait for Miss
Meredith.

249

GEORGINA’S REASONS

251

]

SHE was certainly a singular girl, and if he felt at
the end that he didn’t know her nor understand her,
it is not surprising that he should have felt it at the
beginning. But he felt at the beginning what he
did not feel at the end, that her singularity took the
form of a charm which—once circumstances had made
them so intimate—it was impossible to resist or con-
jure away. He had a strange impression (it amounted
at times to a positive distress, and shot through the
sense of pleasure, morally speaking, with the acute-
ness of a sudden twinge of neuralgia) that it would
be better for each of them that they should break off
short and never see each other again. In later years
he called this feeling a foreboding, and remembered
two or three occasions when he had been on the
point of expressing it to Georgina. Of course, in
fact, he never expressed it; there were plenty of
good reasons for that. Happy love is not disposed
to assume disagreeable duties ; and Raymond Benyon’s
love was happy, in spite of grave presentiments, in
spite of the singularity of his mistress and the in-
sufferable rudeness of her parents. She was a tall,
fair girl, with a -beautiful cold eye, and a smile of
which the perfect sweetness, proceeding from the
lips, was full of compensation ; she had auburn hair,
of a hue that could be qualified as nothing less than
gorgeous, and she seemed to move through life with
a stately grace, as she would have walked through

253

GEORGINA’S REASONS

an old-fashioned minuet. Gentlemen connected with
the navy have the advantage of seeing many types
of women ; they are able to compare the ladies of New
York with those of Valparaiso, and those of Halifax
with those of the Cape of Good Hope. Raymond
Benyon had had these opportunities, and, being fond
of women, he had learned his lesson; he was in a
position to appreciate Georgina Gressie’s fine points.
She looked like a duchess—I don’t mean that in
foreign ports Benyon had associated with duchesses
—and she took everything so seriously. That was
flattering for the young man, who was only a lieutenant,
detailed for duty at the Brooklyn navy-yard, without
a penny in the world but his pay ; with a set of plain,
numerous, seafaring, God-fearing relations in New
Hampshire, a considerable appearance of talent, a
feverish, disguised ambition, and a slight impediment
in his speech. He was a spare, tough young man ;
his dark hair was straight and fine, and his face, a
trifle pale, smooth and carefully drawn. Hestammered
a little, blushing when he did so, at long intervals.
I scarcely know how he appeared on shipboard, but
on shore, in his civilian’s garb, which was of the
neatest, he had as little as possible an aroma of winds
and waves. He was neither salt nor brown nor red
nor particularly ‘“ hearty.’’ He never twitched up
his trousers, nor, so far as one could see, did he,
with his modest, attentive manner, carry himself as
a person accustomed to command. Of course, as a
subaltern, he had more to do in the way of obeying.
He looked as if he followed some sedentary calling,
and was indeed supposed to be decidedly intellectual.
He was a lamb with women, to whose charms he
was, as I have hinted, susceptible; but with men
he was different, and, I believe, as much of a wolf
as was necessary. He had a manner of adoring
the handsome, insolent queen of his affections (I will

254

GEORGINA’S REASONS

explain in a moment why I call her insolent) ; indeed,
he looked up to her literally, as well as sentimentally,
for she was the least bit the taller of the two. |

He had met her the summer before on the piazza
of an hotel at Fort Hamilton, to which, with a brother-
officer, in a dusty buggy, he had driven over from
Brooklyn to spend a tremendously hot Sunday—the
kind of day when the navy-yard was loathsome ; and
the acquaintance had been renewed by his calling
in Twelfth Street on New Year’s day—a considerable
time to wait for a pretext, but which proved the
impression had not been transitory. The acquaintance
ripened, thanks to a zealous cultivation (on his part)
of occasions which Providence, it must be confessed,
placed at his disposal none too liberally; so that
now Georgina took up all his thoughts and a con-
siderable part of his time. He was in love with her,
beyond a doubt; but he could not flatter himself
that she was smitten with him, though she seemed
willing (what was so strange) to quarrel with her
family about him. He didn’t see how she could really
care for him—she was marked out by nature for so
much greater a fortune ; and he used to say to her,
“Ah, you don’t—there’s no use talking, you don’t—
really care for me at all!’’ To which she answered,
“‘ Really ? You are very particular. It seems to me
it’s real enough if I let you touch one of my finger-
tips!’’ That was one of her ways of being insolent.
Another was simply her manner of looking at him,
or at other people, when they spoke to her, with
her hard, divine blue eye—looking quietly, amusedly,
with the air of considering, wholly from her own
point of view, what they might have said, and then
turning her head or her back, while, without taking
the trouble to answer them, she broke into a short,
liquid, irrelevant laugh. This may seem to contradict
what I said just now about her taking the young

255

GEORGINA’S REASONS

lieutenant in the navy seriously. What I mean is
that she appeared to take him more seriously than
she took anything else. She said to him once, “ At
any rate you have the merit of not being a shop-
keeper ’’; and it was by this epithet she was pleased
to designate most of the young men who at that time
flourished in the best society of New York. Even
if she had rather a free way of expressing general
indifference, a young lady is supposed to be serious
enough when she consents to marry you. For the
rest, as regards a certain haughtiness that might be
observed in Georgina Gressie, my story will probably
throw sufficient light upon it. She remarked to
Benyon once that it was none of his business why she
liked him, but that, to please herself, she didn’t mind
telling him she thought the great Napoleon, before
he was celebrated, before he had command of the
army of Italy, must have looked something like him ;
and she sketched in a few words the sort of figure
she imagined the incipient Bonaparte to have been
—short, lean, pale, poor, intellectual, and with a
tremendous future under his hat. Benyon asked
himself whether he had a tremendous future, and
what in the world Georgina expected of him in the
coming years. He was flattered at the comparison,
he was ambitious enough not to be frightened at it,
and he guessed that she perceived a certain analogy
between herself and the Empress Josephine. She
would make a very good empress—that was true ;
Georgina was remarkably imperial. This may not
at first seem to make it more clear why she should
take into her favour an aspirant who, on the face
of the matter, was not original, and whose Corsica
was a flat New England seaport ; but it afterwards
became plain that he owed his brief happiness—it
was very brief—to her father’s opposition; her father’s
and her mother’s, and even her uncles’ and her aunts’.
256

GEORGINA’S REASONS

In those days, in New York, the different members
of a family took an interest in its alliances ; and the
house of Gressie looked askance at an engagement
between the most beautiful of its daughters and a
young man who was not in a paying business.
Georgina declared that they were meddlesome and
vulgar ; she could sacrifice her own people, in that
way, without a scruple; and Benyon’s position im-
proved from the moment that Mr. Gressie—ill-advised
Mr. Gressie—ordered the girl to have nothing to do
with him. Georgina was imperial in this—that she
wouldn’t put up with an order. When, in the house
in Twelfth Street; it began to be talked about that
she had better be sent to Europe with some eligible
friend, Mrs. Portico for instance, who was always
planning to go and who wanted as a companion some
young mind, fresh from manuals and extracts, to
serve as a fountain of history and geography—when
this scheme for getting Georgina out of the way began
to be aired, she immediately said to Raymond Benyon,
“Oh yes, I’ll marry you!’ She said it in such an
off-hand way that, deeply as he desired her, he was
almost tempted to answer, ‘‘ But, my dear, have you
really thought about it ? ”’

257 s

IT

Tuis little drama went on, in New York, in the ancient
days, when Twelfth Street had but lately ceased to
be suburban, when the squares had wooden palings,
which were not often painted, when there were poplars
in important thoroughfares and pigs in the lateral
ways, when the theatres were miles distant from
Madison Square, and the battered rotunda of Castle
Garden echoed with expensive vocal music, when
“the park’ meant the grass-plats of the City Hall,
and the Bloomingdale road was an eligible drive,
when Hoboken, of a summer afternoon, was a genteel
resort, and the handsomest house in town was on the
corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifteenth Street. This
will strike the modern reader, I fear, as rather a
primitive epoch ; but I am not sure that the strength
of human passions is in proportion to the elongation
of a city. Several of them, at any rate, the most
robust and most familiar—love, ambition, jealousy,
resentment, greed—subsisted in considerable force in
the little circle at which we have glanced, where a
view by no means favourable was taken of Raymond
Benyon’s attentions to Miss Gressie. Unanimity was
a family trait among these people (Georgina was
an exception), especially in regard to the important
concerns of life, such as marriages and closing scenes.
The Gressies hung together ; they were accustomed
to do well for themselves and for each other. They
258

GEORGINA’S REASONS

did everything well: got themselves born well (they
thought it excellent to be born a Gressie), lived well,
married well, died well, and managed to be well
spoken of afterwards. In deference to this last-
mentioned habit, I must be careful what I say of
them. They took an interest in each other’s concerns,
an interest that could never be regarded as of a
meddlesome nature, inasmuch as they all thought
alike about all their affairs, and interference took the
happy form of congratulation and encouragenent.
These affairs were invariably lucky, and, as a general
thing, no Gressie had anything to do but feel that
another Gressie had been almost as ‘shrewd and
decided as he himself would have been. The great
exception to that,'as I have said, was this case of
Georgina, who struck such a false note, a note that
startled them all, when she told her father that she
should like to unite herself to a young man engaged
in the least paying business that any Gressie had
ever heard of. Her two sisters had married into the
most flourishing firms, and it was not to be thought
of that—with twenty cousins growing up around
her—she should put down the standard of success.
Her mother had told her a fortnight before this that
she must request Mr. Benyon to cease coming to the
house; for hitherto his suit had been of the most
public and resolute character. He had been conveyed
up-town, from the Brooklyn ferry, in the “ stage,’’ on
certain evenings, had asked for Miss Georgina at the
door of the house in Twelfth Street, and had sat
with her in the front parlour if her parents happened
to occupy the back, or in the back if the family had
disposed itself in the front. Georgina, in her way,
was a dutiful girl, and she immediately repeated her
mother’s admonition to Benyon. He was not surprised,
for, though he was aware that he had not, as yet,
a great knowledge of society, he flattered himself he

259

GEORGINA’S REASONS

could tell when and where a polite young man was
not wanted, There were houses in Brooklyn where
such an animal was much appreciated, and there the
signs were quite different.

They had been discouraging, except on Georgina’s
part, from the first of his calling in Twelfth Street.
Mr. and Mrs. Gressie used to look at each other in
silence when he came in, and indulge in strange per-
pendicular salutations, without any shaking of hands.
People did that at Portsmouth, N.H., when they
were glad to see you; but in New York there was
more luxuriance, and gesture had a different value.
He had never, in Twelfth Street, been asked to
‘take anything,” though the house had a delightful
suggestion, a positive aroma, of sideboards, as if there
were mahogany “ cellarettes’’ under every table.
The old people, moreover, had repeatedly expressed
surprise at the quantity of leisure that officers in the
navy seemed to enjoy. The only way in which they
had not made themselves offensive was by always
remaining in the other room; though at times even
this detachment, to which he owed some delightful
moments, presented itself to Benyon as a form of
disapprobation. Of course, after Mrs. Gressie’s
message, his visits were practically at an end: he
wouldn't give the girl up, but he wouldn't be beholden
to her father for the opportunity to converse with
her. Nothing was left for the tender couple—there
was a curious mutual mistrust in their tenderness—
but to meet in the squares, or in the topmost streets,
or in the sidemost avenues, on the spring afternoons.
It was especially during this phase of their relations
that Georgina struck Benyon as imperial. Her whole
person seemed to exhale a tranquil, happy conscious-
ness of having broken a law. She never told him
how she arranged the matter at home, how she found
it possible always to keep the appointments (to meet

2

GEORGINA’S REASONS

him out of the house) that she so boldly made, in
what degree she dissimulated to her parents, and
how much, in regard to their continued acquaintance,
the old people suspected and accepted. If Mr. and
Mrs. Gressie had forbidden him the house, it was
not, apparently, because they wished her to walk
with him in the Tenth Avenue or to sit at his side
under the blossoming lilacs in Stuyvesant Square.
He didn’t believe that she told lies in Twelfth Street ;
he thought she was too imperial to lie ; and he wondered
what she said to her mother when, at the end of nearly
a whole afternoon of vague peregrination with her
lover, this rustling, bristling matron asked her where
she had been. Georgina was capable of simply telling
the truth; and yet if she simply told the truth it
was a wonder that she had not been still more simply
packed off to Europe. Benyon’s ignorance of her
pretexts is a proof that this rather oddly - mated
couple never arrived at perfect intimacy, in spite of
a fact which remains to be related. He thought of
this afterwards, and thought how strange it was that
he had not felt more at liberty to ask her what she
did for him, and how she did it, and how much she
suffered for him. She would probably not have
admitted that she suffered at all, and she had no
wish to pose for a martyr.

Benyon remembered this, as I say, in the after
years, when he tried to explain to himself certain
things which simply puzzled him ; it came back to
him with the vision, already faded, of shabby cross-
streets, straggling toward rivers, with red sunsets,
seen through a haze of dust, at the end; a vista
through which the figures of a young man and a girl
slowly receded and disappeared, strolling side by side,
with the relaxed pace of desultory talk, but more
closely linked as they passed into the distance, linked
by its at last appearing safe to them—in the Tenth

267

GEORGINA’S REASONS

Avenue—that the young lady should take his arm.
They were always approaching that inferior thorough-
fare ; but he could scarcely have told you, in those
days, what else they were approaching. He had
nothing in the world but this pay, and he felt that
this was rather a ‘‘mean”’ income to offer Miss
Gressie. Therefore he didn’t put it forward ; what
he offered, instead, was the expression—crude often,
and almost boyishly extravagant—of a delighted
admiration of her beauty, the tenderest tones of his
voice, the softest assurances of his eye, and the most
insinuating pressure of her hand at those moments
when she consented to place it in his arm. All this
was an eloquence which, if necessary, might have
been condensed into a single sentence; but those
few words were scarcely needed when it was as plain
that he expected, in general, she would marry him,
as it was indefinite that he counted upon her for
living on a few hundred a year. If she had been a
different girl he might have asked her to wait, might
have talked to her of the coming of better days, of
his prospective promotion, of its being wiser, perhaps,
that he should leave the navy and look about for a
more lucrative career. With Georgina it was difficult
to go into such questions ; she had no taste whatever
for detail. She was delightful as a woman to love,
because when a young man is in love he discovers
that ; but she could not be called helpful, for she
never suggested anything. That is, she never had
done so till the day she really proposed—for that was
the form it took—to become his wife without more
delay. “‘ Oh yes, I will marry you”’: these words,
which I quoted a little way back, were not so much
the answer to something he had said at the moment
as the light conclusion of a report she had just made
(for the first time) of her actual situation in her
father’s house.
262

III

““T am afraid I shall have to see less of you,’”’ she
had begun by saying. ‘‘ They watch me so much.”

“Tt is very little already,” he answered. ‘‘ What
is once or twice a week ? ”’

‘““ That’s easy for you to say. You are your own
master, but you don’t know what I go through.”

‘Do they make it very bad for you, dearest ?
Do they make scenes ? ’”’ Benyon asked.

‘No, of course not. Don’t you know us enough
to know how we behave ? No scenes; that would
be a relief. However, I never make them myself,
and I never will—that’s one comfort for you, for the
future, if you want to know. Father and mother
keep very quiet, looking at me as if I were one of
the lost, with little hard, piercing eyes, like gimlets.
To me they scarcely say anything, but they talk it
all over with each other, and try and decide what
is to be done. It’s my belief that my father has
written to the people in Washington—what do you
call it >—the Department—to have you moved away
from Brooklyn—to have you sent to sea.”’

““T guess that won’t do much good. They want
me in Brooklyn ; they don’t want me at sea.”

“Well, they are capable of going to Europe for
a year, on purpose to take me,’’ Georgina said.

‘“‘ How can they take you if you won't go? And
if you should go, what good would it do if you were

263

GEORGINA’S REASONS

only to find me here when you came back, just the
same as you left me? ”

“Oh, well!” said Georgina, with her lovely smile,
“of course they think that absence would cure me
of—cure me of——’’ And she paused, with a kind
of cynical modesty, not saying exactly of what.

“Cure you of what, darling? Say it, please say
it,’’ the young man murmured, drawing her hand
surreptitiously into his arm.

“Of my absurd infatuation ! ”

“‘ And would it, dearest ? ”’

“Yes, very likely. But I don’t mean to try. I
shall not go to Europe—not when I don’t want to.
But it’s better I should see less of you—even that |
should appear—a little—to give you up.”

“ A little ? What do you call a little ? ”’

Georgina said nothing fora moment. ‘ Well, that,
for instance, you shouldn’t hold my hand quite so
tight !’’ And she disengaged this conscious member
from the pressure of his arm.

“What good will that do? ’’ Benyon asked.

“It will make them think it’s all over—that we
have agreed to part.”

‘And as we have done nothing of the kind, how
will that help us ? ”’

They had stopped at the crossing of a street ;
a heavy dray was lumbering slowly past them.
Georgina, as she stood there, turned her face to her
lover and rested her eyes for some moments on his
own. At last, “ Nothing will help us; I don’t think
we are very happy,” she answered, while her strange,
ironical, inconsequent smile played about her beautiful
lips.

“* T don’t understand how you see things. I thought
you were going to say you would marry me,’ Benyon
rejoined, standing there still, though the dray had
passed.

264

GEORGINA’S REASONS

“Oh yes, I will marry you!’’ And she moved
away across the street. That was the way she had
said it, and it was very characteristic of her. When
he saw that she really meant it, he wished they were
somewhere else—he hardly knew where the proper
place would be—so that he might take her in his
arms. Nevertheless, before they separated that day
he had said to her he hoped she remembered they
would be very poor, reminding her how great a change
she would find it. She answered that she shouldn’t
mind, and presently she said that if this was all that
prevented them the sooner they were married the
better. The next time he saw her she was quite of
the same opinion; but he found, to his surprise, it
was now her conviction that she had better not leave
her father’s house. The ceremony should take place
secretly, of course; but they would wait a while to
let their union be known.

“What good will it do us, then?’’ Raymond
Benyon asked.

Georgina coloured. ‘‘ Well, if you don’t know, I
can't tell you !”’

Then it seemed to him that he did know. Yet,
at the same time, he could not see why, once the knot
was tied, secrecy should be required. When he asked
what especial event they were to wait for, and what
should give them the signal to appear as man and
wife, she answered that her parents would probably
forgive her if they were to discover, not too abruptly,
after six months, that she had taken the great step.
Benyon supposed that she had ceased to care whether
they forgave her or not ; but he had already perceived
that the nature of women is a queer mosaic. He
had believed her capable of marrying him out of
bravado, but the pleasure of defiance was absent if
the marriage was kept to themselves. It now
appeared that she was not especially anxious to

205

GEORGINA’S REASONS

defy ; she was disposed rather to manage and,
temporise.

“ Leave it to me; leave it to me. You are only
a blundering man,’’ Georgina said. ‘‘I shall know
much better than you the right moment for saying,
‘Well, you may as well make the best of it, because
we have already done it!’”’

That might very well be, but Benyon didn’t quite
understand, and he was awkwardly anxious (for a
lover) till it came over him afresh that there was one
thing at any rate in his favour, which was simply
that the finest girl he had ever seen was ready to
throw herself into his arms. When he said to her,
‘There is one thing I hate in this plan of yours—
that, for ever so few weeks, so few days, your father
should support my wife’’—when he made this
homely remark, with a little flush of sincerity in his
face, she gave him a specimen of that unanswerable
laugh of hers, and declared that it would serve Mr.
Gressie right for being so barbarous and so horrid.
It was Benyon’s view that from the moment she
disobeyed her father she ought to cease to avail
herself of his protection; but I am bound to add
that he was not particularly surprised at finding this
a kind of honour in which her feminine nature was
little versed. To make her his wife first—at the
earliest moment—whenever she would, and trust to
fortune and the new influence he should have to
give him, as soon thereafter as possible, complete
possession of her: this finally presented itself to the
young officer as the course most worthy of a lover
and a gentleman. He would be only a pedant who
would take nothing because he could not get every-
thing at once. They wandered further than usual
this afternoon, and the dusk was thick by the time
he brought her back to her father’s door. It was
not his habit to come so near it, but to-day they had

266

GEORGINA’S REASONS

so much to talk about that he actually stood with her
for ten minutes at the foot of the steps. He was
keeping her hand in his, and she let it rest there while
she said—by way of a remark that should sum up
all their reasons and reconcile their differences—

“ There’s one great thing it will do, you know:
it will make me safe.”’

“ Safe from what ? ”’

“From marrying any one else.”

“Ah, my girl, 1f you were to do that——!”
Benyon exclaimed; but he didn’t mention the
other branch of the contingency. Instead of this,
he looked aloft at the blind face of the house (there
were only dim lights in two or three windows, and
no apparent eyes) and up and down the empty street,
vague in the friendly twilight ; after which he drew
Georgina Gressie to his breast and gave her a long,
passionate kiss. Yes, decidedly, he felt they had
better be married. She had run quickly up the steps,
and while she stood there, with her hand on the bell,
she almost hissed at him, under her breath, “‘ Go away,
go away; Amanda’s coming!’ Amanda was the
parlour-maid ; and it was in those terms that the
Twelfth Street Juliet dismissed her Brooklyn Romeo.
As he wandered back into the Fifth Avenue, where
the evening air was conscious of a vernal fragrance
from the shrubs in the little precinct of the pretty
Gothic church ornamenting that pleasant part of the
street, he was too absorbed in the impression of the
delightful contact from which the girl had violently
released herself to reflect that the great reason she
had mentioned a moment before was a reason for their
marrying, of course, but not in the least a reason
for their not making it public. But, as I said in the
opening lines of this chapter, if he did not under-
stand his mistress’s motives at the end, he cannot be
expected to have understood them at the beginning.

267

IV

Mrs. Portico, as we know, was always talking
about going to Europe; but she had not yet—I
mean a year after the incident I have just related
—put her hand upon a youthful cicerone. Petti-
coats, of course, were required; it was necessary
that her companion should be of the sex which
sinks most naturally upon benches, in galleries and
cathedrals, and pauses most frequently upon stair-
cases that ascend to celebrated views. She was a
widow with a good fortune and several sons, all of
whom were in Wali Street, and none of them capable
of the relaxed pace at which she expected to take her
foreign tour. They were all in a state of tension ;
they went through life standing. She was a short,
broad, high-coloured woman, with a loud voice and
superabundant black hair, arranged in a way peculiar
to herself, with so many combs and bands that it had
the appearance of a national coiffure. There was
an impression in New York, about 1845, that the
style was Danish; some one had said something
about having seen it in Schleswig-Holstein. Mrs.
Portico had a bold, humorous, slightly flamboyant
look ; people who saw her for the first time received
an impression that her late husband had married the
daughter of a bar-keeper or the proprietress of a
menagerie. Her high, hoarse, good-natured voice
seemed to connect her in some way with public life ;
268

GEORGINA’S REASONS

it was not pretty enough to suggest that she might
have been an actress. These ideas quickly passed
away, however, even if you were not sufficiently
initiated to know—as all the Gressies, for instance,
knew so well—that her origin, so far from being
enveloped in mystery, was almost the sort of thing
she might have boasted of. But, in spite of the
high pitch of her appearance, she didn’t boast of
anything ; she was a genial, easy, comical, irreverent
person, with a large charity, a democratic, fraternising
turn of mind, and a contempt for many worldly
standards, which she expressed not in the least in
general axioms (for she had a mortal horror of philo-
sophy), but in violent ejaculations on particular
occasions. She had not a grain of moral timidity,
and she fronted a delicate social problem as sturdily as
she would have barred the way of a gentleman she
might have met in her vestibule with the plate-chest.
The only thing which prevented her being a bore
in orthodox circles was that she was incapable of
discussion. She never lost her temper, but she lost
her vocabulary, and ended quickly by praying that
heaven would give her an opportunity to act out what
she believed. She was an old friend of Mr. and Mrs.
Gressie, who esteemed her for the antiquity of her
lineage and the frequency of her subscriptions, and
to whom she rendered the service of making them feel
liberal—like people too sure of their own position to
be frightened. She was their indulgence, their dis-
sipation, their point of contact with dangerous
heresies ; so long as they continued to see her they
could not be accused of being narrow-minded—a
matter as to which they were perhaps vaguely con-
scious of the necessity of taking their precautions.
Mrs. Portico never asked herself whether she liked
the Gressies; she had no disposition for morbid
analysis, she accepted transmitted associations, and

269

GEORGINA’S REASONS

found, somehow, that her acquaintance with these
people helped her to relieve herself. She was always
making scenes in their drawing-room, scenes half
indignant, half jocose, like all her manifestations, to
which it must be confessed that they adapted them-
selves beautifully. They never “ met”’ her, in the
language of controversy; but always collected to
watch her, with smiles and comfortable platitudes,
as if they envied her superior richness of tempera-
ment. She took an interest in Georgina, who seemed
to her different from the others, with suggestions about
her of being likely not to marry so unrefreshingly as
her sisters had done, and of a high, bold standard of
duty. Her sisters had married from duty, but Mrs.
Portico would rather have chopped off one of her large
plump hands than behave herself so well as that.
She had, in her daughterless condition, a certain ideal
of a girl who should be beautiful and romantic, with
wistful eyes, and a little persecuted, so that she, Mrs.
Portico, might get her out of her troubles. She
looked to Georgina, to a considerable degree, to give
actuality to this vision; but she had really never
understood Georgina at alJ. She ought to have been
shrewd, but she lacked this refinement, and she never
understood anything until after many disappoint-
ments and vexations. It was difficult to startle her,
but she was much startled by a communication that
this young lady made her one fine spring morning.
With her florid appearance and her speculative mind,
she was probably the most innocent woman in New
York.

Georgina came very early, earlier even than
visits were paid in New York thirty years ago; and
instantly, without any preface, looking her straight in
the face, told Mrs. Portico that she was in great trouble
and must appeal to her for assistance. Georgina
had in her aspect no symptom of distress ; she was as

270

*»

GEORGINA’S REASONS

fresh and beautiful as the April day itself ; she held
up her head and smiled, with a sort of familiar
challenge, looking like a young woman who would
naturally be on good terms with fortune. It was not
in the least in the tone of a person making a confession
or relating a misadventure that she presently said,
‘Well, you must know, to begin with—of course,
it will surprise you—that I am married.”

‘“‘ Married, Georgina Gressie!’’ Mrs. Portico re-
peated, in her most resonant tones.

Georgina got up, walked with her majestic step
across the room, and closed the door. Then she
stood there, her back pressed against the mahogany
panels, indicating only by the distance she had placed
between herself and her hostess the consciousness of
an irregular position. ‘‘ I am not Georgina Gressie—
I am Georgina Benyon; and it has become plain,
within a short time, that the natural consequence will
take place.”’

Mrs. Portico was altogether bewildered. ‘‘ The
natural consequence ? ’’ she exclaimed, staring.

““Of one’s being married, of course; I suppose
you know what that is. No one must know anything
about it. I want you to take me to Europe.”’

Mrs. Portico now slowly rose from her place and
approached her visitor, looking at her from head to
foot as she did so, as if to measure the truth of her
remarkable announcement. She rested her hands on
Georgina’s shoulders a moment, gazing into her
blooming face, and then she drew her closer and
kissed her. In this way the girl was conducted back
to the sofa, where, in a conversation of extreme
intimacy, she opened Mrs. Portico’s eyes wider than
they had ever been opened before. She was Raymond
Benyon’s wife; they had been married a year, but
no one knew anything about it. She had kept it
from every one, and she meant to go on keeping it.

271

GEORGINA’S REASONS

The ceremony had taken place in a little Episcopal
church at Haarlem, one Sunday afternoon, after the
service. There was no one in that dusty suburb who
knew them ; the clergyman, vexed at being detained,
and wanting to go home to tea, had made no trouble ;
he tied the knot before they could turn round. It
was ridiculous how easy it had been. Raymond
had told him frankly that it must all be under the
rose, as the young lady’s family disapproved of what
she was doing. But she was of legal age, and perfectly
free ; he could see that for himself. The parson had
given a grunt as he looked at her over his spectacles ;
it was not very complimentary, it seemed to say that
she was indeed no chicken. Of course she looked old
for a girl; but she was not a girl now, was she?
Raymond had certified his own identity as an officer
in the United States navy (he had papers, besides his
uniform, which he wore), and introduced the clergy-
man to a friend he had brought with him, who was
also in the navy, a venerable paymaster. It was he
who gave Georgina away, as it were; he was a dear
old man, a regular grandmother, and perfectly safe.
He had been married three times himself, and the first
time in the same way. After the ceremony she went
back to her father’s; but she saw Mr. Benyon the
next day. After that she saw him—for a little while
—pretty often. He was always begging her to come
to him altogether ; she must do him that justice. But
she wouldn’t—she wouldn't now—perhaps she wouldn't
ever. She had her reasons, which seemed to her very
good but were very difficult to explain. She would
tell Mrs. Portico in plenty of time what they were.
But that was not the question now, whether they were
good or bad; the question was for her to get away
from the country for several months—far away from
any one who had ever known her. She should like
to go to some little place in Spain or Italy, where she
272

GEORGINA’S REASONS

should be out of the world until everything was
over.

Mrs. Portico’s heart gave a jump as this serene,
handsome, domestic girl, sitting there with a hand
in hers and pouring forth her extraordinary tale,
spoke of everything being over. There was a glossy
coldness in it, an unnatural lightness, which suggested
—poor Mrs. Portico scarcely knew what. If Georgina
was to become a mother it was to be supposed
she would remain a mother. She said there was a
beautiful place in Italy—-Genoa—of which Raymond
had often spoken, and where he had been more than
once, he admired it so much; couldn’t they go there
and be quiet for a little while? She was asking a
great favour, that she knew very well; but if Mrs.
Portico wouldn’t take her she would find some one
who would. They had talked of such a journey so
often; and, certainly, if Mrs. Portico had been will-
ing before, she ought to be much more willing now.
The girl declared that she would do something, go
somewhere, keep, in one way or another, her situation
unperceived. There was no use talking to her about
telling ; she would rather die than tell. No doubt it
seemed strange, but she knew what she was about.
No one had guessed anything yet—she had succeeded
perfectly in doing what she wished—and her father
and mother believed—as Mrs. Portico had believed,
hadn’t she ?—that, any time the last year, Raymond
Benyon was less to her than he had been before.
Well, so he was; yes, he was. He had gone away—
he was off, goodness knew where—in the Pacific ;
she was alone, and now she would remain alone. The
family believed it was all over, with his going back
to his ship, and other things, and they were right ;
for it was over, or it would be soon.

273 T

V

Mrs. Portico, by this time, had grown almost afraid
of her young friend ; she had so little fear, she had
even, as it were, so little shame. If the good lady
had been accustomed to analysing things a little
more, she would have said she had so little conscience.
She looked at Georgina with dilated eyes—her
visitor was so much the calmer of the two—and
exclaimed, and murmured, and sank back, and sprang
forward, and wiped her forehead with her pocket-
handkerchief. There were things she didn’t under-
stand ; that they should all have been so deceived,
that they should have thought Georgina was giving
her lover up (they flattered themselves she was dis-
couraged or had grown tired of him) when she was
really only making it impossible she should belong to
any one else. And with this, her inconsequence, her
capriciousness, her absence of motive, the way she
contradicted herself, her apparent belief that she
could hush up such a situation for ever! There
was nothing shameful in having married poor Mr.
Benyon, even in a little church at Haarlem, and
being given away by a paymaster; it was much
more shameful to be in such a state without being
prepared to make the proper explanations. And
she must have seen very lhttle of her husband ;
she must have given him up, so far as meeting him
went, almost as soon as she had taken him. Had

274

GEORGINA’S REASONS

not Mrs. Gressie herself told Mrs. Portico, in the
preceding October it must have been, that there now
would be no need of sending Georgina away, inasmuch
as the affair with the little navy-man—a project in
every way so unsuitable—had quite blown over ?

“ After our marriage I saw him less—I saw him
a great deal less,’’ Georgina explained; but her
explanation only appeared to make the mystery
more dense.

“T don’t see, in that case, what on earth you
married him for!”

“We had to be more careful ; I wished to appear
to have given himup. Of course we were really more
intimate ; I saw him differently,” Georgina said,
smiling.

“T should think so! I can’t for the life of me
see why you weren’t discovered.”

“All I can say is we weren’t. No doubt it’s
remarkable. We managed very well—that is, I
managed ; he didn’t want to manage at all. And
then father and mother are incredibly stupid ! ”

Mrs. Portico exhaled a comprehensive moan,
feeling glad, on the whole, that she hadn’t a daughter,
while Georgina went on to furnish a few more details.
Raymond Benyon, in the summer, had been ordered
from Brooklyn to Charlestown, near Boston, where,
as Mrs. Portico perhaps knew, there was another
navy-yard, in which there was a temporary press of
work, requiring more oversight. He had remained
there several months, during which he had written to
her urgently to come to him, and during which,
as well, he had received notice that he was to rejoin
his ship a little later. Before doing so he came back
to Brooklyn for a few weeks, to wind up his work there,
and then she had seen him—well, pretty often. That
‘was the best time of all the year that had elapsed
since their marriage. It was a wonder at home that

275

GEORGINA’S REASONS

nothing had then been guessed, because she had
really been reckless, and Benyon had even tried to
force on a disclosure. But they were dense, that was
very certain. He had besought her again and again
to put an end to their false position, but she didn’t
want it any more than she had wanted it before.
They had had rather a bad parting; in fact, for a
pair of lovers, it was a very queer parting indeed.
He didn’t know, now, the thing she had come to
tell Mrs. Portico. She had not written to him. He
was on a very long cruise. It might be two years
before he returned to the United States. “I don’t
care how long he stays away,” Georgina said, very
simply.

“You haven’t mentioned why you married him.
Perhaps you don’t remember!” Mrs. Portico broke
out, with her masculine laugh.

“Qh yes; I loved him.”

“‘ And you have got over that ? ”’

Georgina hesitated a moment. “ Why, no, Mrs.
Portico, of course I haven’t. Raymond’s a splendid
fellow.”’

“Then why don’t you live with him? You
don’t explain that.”

“What would be the use when he’s always away ?
How can one live with a man who spends half his
life in the South Seas? If he wasn’t in the navy
it would be different ; but to go through everything
—-I mean everything that making our marriage known
would bring upon me: the scolding and the exposure
and the ridicule, the scenes at home—to go through
it all just for the idea, and yet to be alone here, just
as I was before, without my husband after all, with
none of the good of him ’’—and here Georgina looked
at her hostess as if with the certitude that such an
enumeration of inconveniences would touch her
effectually—“ really, Mrs. Portico, I am bound to

276

GEORGINA’S REASONS

say I don’t think that would be worth while; I
haven't the courage for it.”

“TI never thought you were a coward,” said Mrs.
Portico.

“Well, I am not, if you will give me time. I
am very patient.”

“ T never thought that either.”’

‘Marrying changes one,” said Georgina, still
smiling.

“ Tt certainly seems to have had a very odd effect
upon you. Why don’t you make him leave the navy
and arrange your life comfortably, like every one
else >?”

“I wouldn’t for the world interfere with his
prospects—with his promotion. That is sure to
come for him, and to come immediately, he has
such talents. He is devoted to his profession; it
would ruin him to leave it.”

‘* My dear young woman, you are a living wonder! ”’
Mrs. Portico exclaimed, looking at her companion as
if she had been in a glass case.

“So poor Raymond says,” Georgina answered,
smiling more than ever.

“Certainly, I should have been very sorry to
marry a navy-man; but if I had married him I
would stick to him, in the face of all the scoldings
in the universe ! ”’

“I don’t know what your parents may have been ;
I know what mine are,” Georgina replied, with some
dignity. ‘‘ When he’s a captain we shall come out
of hiding.”’

“And what shall you do meanwhile? What
will you do with your children? Where will you
hide them? What will you do with this one? ”

Georgina rested her eyes on her lap for a minute ;
then, raising them, she met those of Mrs. Portico.
“‘ Somewhere in Europe,” she said, in her-sweet tone.

277

GEORGINA’S REASONS

‘ Georgina Gressie, you’re a monster! ”’ the elder
lady cried.

‘I know what I am about, and you will help me,”’
the girl went on.

“TI will go and tell your father and mother the
whole story—that’s what I will do!”

‘I am not in the least afraid of that—not in
the least. You will help me; I assure you that you
will.”’

‘Do you mean I will support the child ? ”’

Georgina broke into a laugh. “I do believe you
would, if I were to ask you! But I won’t go so far
as that; I have something of my own. All I want
you to do is to be with me.”

‘At Genoa; yes, you have got it all fixed! You
say Mr. Benyon is so fond of the place. That’s all
very well; but how will he like his baby being
deposited there ? ”

“ He won't like it at all. You see I tell you the
whole truth,” said Georgina, gently.

“Much obliged ; it’s a pity you keep it all for
me! It is in his power, then, to make you behave
properly. He can publish your marriage, if you
won't ; and if he does you will have to acknowledge
your child.”’

‘Publish, Mrs. Portico? How little you know
my Raymond! He will never break a promise ; he
will go through fire first.”

“ And what have you got him to promise ? ”’

“‘ Never to insist on a disclosure against my will ;
never to claim me openly as his wife till I think it
is time ; never to let any one know what has passed
between us if I choose to keep it still a secret—to
keep it for years—to keep it for ever. Never do
anything in the matter himself, but to leave it to me.
For this he has given me his solemn word of honour,
and I know, what that means | ”

278

GEORGINA’S REASONS

Mrs. Portico, on the sofa, fairly bounced.

“You do know what you are about! And Mr.
Benyon strikes me as more demented even than
yourself. I never heard of a man putting his head
into such a noose. What good can it do him? ”

“What good? The good it did him was that
it gratified me. At the time he took it he would
have made any promise under the sun. It was a
condition I exacted just at the very last, before
the marriage took place. There was nothing at that
moment he would have refused me; there was
nothing I couldn’t have made him do. He was in
love to that degree—but I don’t want to boast,”’ said
Georgina, with quiet grandeur. ‘‘ He wanted—he
wanted ” she added ; but then she paused.

“He doesn’t seem to have wanted much!” Mrs.
Portico cried, in a tone which made Georgina turn
to the window, as if it might have reached the street.
Her hostess noticed the movement and went on, ‘‘ Oh,
my dear, if I ever do tell your story I will tell it so that
people will hear it!”

“You never will tell it. What I mean is that
Raymond wanted the sanction—of the affair at
the church—because he saw that I would never do
without it. Therefore, for him, the sooner we had it
the better, and, to hurry it on, he was ready to take

any pledge.”
“You have got it pat enough,” said Mrs. Portico,
in homely phrase. “ I don’t know what you mean by

sanctions, or what you wanted of ’em.”’

Georgina got up, holding rather higher than before
that beautiful head which, in spite of the embarrass-
ments of this interview, had not yet perceptibly
abated its elevation. ‘‘ Would you have liked me
to—to not marry ? ”

Mrs. Portico rose also, and, flushed with the
agitation of unwonted knowledge—it was as if she

. 279

GEORGINA’S REASONS

had discovered a skeleton in her favourite cupboard
—faced her young friend for a moment. Then her
conflicting sentiments resolved themselves into an
abrupt question, implying, for Mrs. Portico, much
subtlety: ‘‘ Georgina Gressie, were you really in
love with him ? ”’

The question suddenly dissipated the girl’s strange,
studied, wilful coldness ; she broke out, with a quick
flash of passion—a passion that, for the moment,
was predominantly anger, ‘“‘ Why else, in heaven’s
name, should I have done what I have done? Why
else should I have married him? What under the
sun had I to gain? ”’

A certain quiver in Georgina’s voice, a light in
her eye which seemed to Mrs. Portico more spon-
taneous, more human, as she uttered these words,
caused them to affect her hostess rather less pain-
fully than anything’ she had yet said. She took the
girl’s hand and emitted indefinite admonitory sounds.
‘‘ Help me, my dear old friend, help me,’’ Georgina
continued, in a low, pleading tone ; and in a moment
Mrs. Portico saw that the tears were in her eyes.

“You are a precious mixture, my child!” she
exclaimed. ‘‘ Go straight home to your own mother
and tell her everything ; that is your best help.”

“You are kinder than my mother. You mustn’t
judge her by yourself.”’

“What can she do to you? How can she hurt
your We are not living in pagan times,’’ said Mrs.
Portico, who was seldom so historical. ‘‘ Besides, you
have no reason to speak of your mother—to think of
her even—so! She would have liked you to marry a
man of some property ;- but she has always been a
good mother to you.”

At this rebuke Georgina suddenly kindled again ;
she was, indeed, as Mrs. Portico had said, a precious
mixture. Conscious, evidently, that she could not

280

GEORGINA’S REASONS

satisfactorily justify her present stiffness, she wheeled
round upon a grievance which absolved her from self-
defence. ‘‘ Why, then, did he make that promise,
if he loved me? No man who really loved me would
have made it, and no man that was a man as I under-
stand being aman! He might have seen that I only
did it to test him—to see if he wanted to take advan-
tage of being left free himself. It is a proof that he
doesn’t love me—not as he ought to have done; and
in such a case as that a woman isn’t bound to make
sacrifices ! ”’

Mrs. Portico was not a person of a nimble intellect ;
her mind moved vigorously, but heavily ; yet she some-
times made happy guesses. She saw that Georgina’s
emotions were partly real and partly fictitious, that,
as regards this last matter especially, she was trying

o ‘“‘ get up ”’ a resentment, in order to excuse herself.
The pretext was absurd, and the good lady was struck
with its being heartless on the part of her young
visitor to reproach poor Benyon with a concession on
which she had insisted, and which could only be a
proof of his devotion, inasmuch as he left her free
while he bound himself. Altogether, Mrs. Portico was
shocked and dismayed at such a want of simplicity
in the behaviour of a young person whom she had
hitherto believed to be as candid as she was stylish,
and her appreciation of this discovery expressed itself
in the uncompromising remark, ‘‘ You’strike me as
a very bad girl, my dear; you strike me as a very
bad girl!”

281

Vi

It will doubtless seem to the reader very singular
that, in spite of this reflexion, which appeared to
sum up her judgement of the matter, Mrs. Portico
should in the course of a very few days have consented
to everything that Georgina asked of her. I have
thought it well to narrate at length the first con-
versation that took place between them, but I shall
not trace further the successive phases of the girl’s
appeal, or the steps by which—in the face of a
hundred robust and salutary convictions—the loud,
kind, sharp, simple, sceptical, credulous woman took
under her protection a damsel whose obstinacy she
could not speak of without getting red with anger.
It was the simple fact of Georgina’s personal condition
that moved her ; this young lady’s greatest eloquence
was the seriousness of her predicament. She might
be bad, and she had a splendid, careless, insolent,
fair-faced way of admitting it, which at moments,
incoherently, inconsistently, irresistibly, transmuted
the cynical confession into tears of weakness ; but
Mrs. Portico had known her from her rosiest years,
and when Georgina declared that she couldn’t go
home, that she wished to be with her and not with
her mother, that she couldn’t expose herself—she
absolutely couldn’t—and that she must remain with
her and her only till the day they should sail, the
poor lady was forced to make that day a reality. She
282

GEORGINA’S REASONS

was over -mastered, she was cajoled, she was, to
a certain extent, fascinated. She had to accept
Georgina’s rigidity (she had none of her own to
oppose to it—she was only violent, she was not con-
tinuous), and once she did this it was plain, after all,
that to take her young friend to Europe was to help
her, and to leave her alone was not to help her.
Georgina literally frightened Mrs. Portico into com-
pliance. She was evidently capable of strange things
if thrown upon her own devices. So, from one day
to another, Mrs. Portico announced that she was really
at last about to sail for foreign lands (her doctor
having told her that if she didn’t look out she would
get too old to enjoy them), and that she had invited
that robust Miss Gressie, who could stand so long on
her feet, to accompany her. There was joy in the
house of Gressie at this announcement, for, though
the danger was over, it was a great general advantage
to Georgina to go, and the Gressies were always elated
at the prospect of an advantage. There was a danger
that she might meet Mr. Benyon on the other side of
the world ; but it didn’t seem likely that Mrs. Portico
would lend herself to a plot of that kind. If she had
taken it into her head to favour their love-affair she
would have done it openly, and Georgina would have
been married by this time. Her arrangements were
made as quickly as her decision had been—or rather
had appeared—slow ; for this concerned those mer-
curial young men down town. Georgina was per-
petually at her house ; it was understood in Twelfth
Street that she was talking over her future travels
with her kind friend. Talk there was, of course, to
a considerable degree ; but after it was settled they
should start nothing more was said about the motive
of the journey. Nothing was said, that is, till the
night before they sailed ; then a few plain words passed
between them. Georgina had already taken leave of
283

GEORGINA’S REASONS

her relations in Twelfth Street, and was to sleep at
Mrs. Portico’s in order to go down to the ship at an
early hour. The two ladies were sitting together in
the firelight, silent with the consciousness of corded
luggage, when the elder one suddenly remarked to
her companion that she seemed to be taking a great
deal upon herself in assuming that Raymond Benyon
wouldn’t force her hand. He might choose to
acknowledge his child, if she didn’t; there were
promises and promises, and many people would
consider they had been let off when circumstances
were so altered. She would have to reckon with
Mr. Benyon more than she thought.

“I know what I am about,” Georgina answered.
‘There is only one promise for him. I don’t know
what you mean by circumstances being altered.’

‘Everything seems to me to be altered,” poor
Mrs. Portico murmured, rather tragically.

‘Well, he isn’t, and he never will! I am sure
of him, as sure as that I sit here. Do you think I
would have looked at him if I hadn’t known he was
a man of his word ? ”

‘** You have chosen him well, my dear,” said Mrs.
Portico, who by this time was reduced to a kind of
bewildered acquiescence.

‘Of course I have chosen him well. In such a
matter as this he will be perfectly splendid.”’ Then
suddenly, ‘‘ Perfectly splendid, that’s why I cared
for him,”’ she repeated, with a flash of incongruous
passion.

This seemed to Mrs. Portico audacious to the point
of being sublime; but she had given up trying to
understand anything that the girl might say or do.
She understood less and less after they had dis-
embarked in England and begun to travel southward ;
and she understood least of all when, in the middle
of the winter, the event came off with which in

284

GEORGINA’S REASONS

imagination she had tried to familiarise herself, but
which, when it occurred, seemed to her beyond measure
strange and dreadful. It took place at Genoa; for
Georgina had made up her mind that there would
be more privacy in a big town than in a little; and
she wrote to America that both Mrs. Portico and she
had fallen in love with the place and would spend two
or three months there. At that time people in the
United States knew much less than to-day about the
comparative attractions of foreign cities ; and it was
not thought surprising that absent New Yorkers should
wish to linger in a seaport where they might find
apartments, according to Georgina’s report, in a palace
painted in fresco by Vandyke and Titian. Georgina,
in her letters, omitted, it will be seen, no detail that
could give colour to Mrs. Portico’s long stay at Genoa.
In such a palace—where the travellers hired twenty
gilded rooms for the most insignificant sum—a
remarkably fine boy came into the world. Nothing
could have been more successful and comfortable than
this transaction—Mrs. Portico was almost appalled at
the facility and felicity of it. She was by this time
in a pretty bad way ; and—what had never happened
to her before in her life—she suffered from chronic
depression of spirits. She hated to have to lie, and
now she was lying all the time. Everything she
wrote home, everything that had been said or done
in connexion with their stay in Genoa, was a lie.
The way they remained indoors to avoid meeting
chance compatriots was a lie. Compatriots in Genoa,
at that period, were very rare; but nothing could
exceed the business-like completeness of Georgina’s
precautions. Her nerve, her self-possession, her
apparent want of feeling, excited on Mrs. Portico’s
part a kind of gloomy suspense ; a morbid anxiety to
see how far her companion would go took possession
of the excellent woman who, a few months before,
285

GEORGINA’S REASONS

hated to fix her mind on disagreeable things. Georgina
went very far indeed ; she did everything in her power
to dissimulate the origin of her child. The record
of his birth was made under a false name, and he
was baptized at the nearest church by a Catholic
priest. A magnificent contadina was brought to
light by the doctor in a village in the hills, and
this big, brown, barbarous creature, who, to do her
justice, was full of handsome, familiar smiles and
coarse tenderness, was constituted nurse to Raymond
Benyon’s son. She nursed him for a fortnight under
the mother’s eye, and she was then sent back to
her village with the baby in her arms and sundry
gold coin knotted into a corner of her pocket-hand-
kerchief. Mr. Gressie had given his daughter a
liberal letter of credit on a London banker, and she
was able, for the present, to make abundant provision
for the little one. She called Mrs. Portico’s attention
to the fact that she spent none of her money on
futilities ; she kept it all for her small pensioner in
the Genoese hills. Mrs. Portico beheld these strange
doings with a stupefaction that occasionally broke into
passionate protest ; then she relapsed into a brooding
sense of having now been an accomplice so far that
she must be an accomplice to the end.

286

Vil

THE two ladies went down to Rome—Georgina was
in wonderful trim—to finish the season, and here
Mrs. Portico became convinced that she intended to
abandon her offspring. She had not driven into the
country to see the nursling before leaving Genoa ;
she had said that she couldn’t bear to see it in such
a place and among such people. Mrs. Portico, it
must be added, had felt the force of this plea, felt
it as regards a plan of her own, given up after being
hotly entertained for a few hours, of devoting a day,
by herself, to a visit to the big contadina. It seemed
to her that if she should see the child in the sordid
hands to which Georgina had consigned it, she would
become still more of a participant than she was
already. This young woman’s blooming hardness,
after they got to Rome, acted upon her like a kind
of Medusa-mask. She had seen a horrible thing, she
had been mixed up with it, and her motherly heart
had received a mortal chill. It became more clear to
her every day that, though Georgina would continue
to send the infant money in considerable quantities,
she had dispossessed herself of it for ever. Together
with this induction a fixed idea settled in her mind—
the project of taking the baby herself, of making him’
her own, of arranging that matter with the father.
The countenance she had given Georgina up to this
point was an effective pledge that she would not
expose her ; but she could adopt the poor little mortal
without exposing her, she could say that he was a

GEORGINA’S REASONS

lovely baby—he was lovely, fortunately—-whom she
had picked up in a wretched village in Italy, a village
that had been devastated by brigands. She could
pretend—she could pretend ; oh yes, of course, she
could pretend! Everything was imposture now, and
she could go on to lie as she had begun. The falsity
of the whole business sickened her; it made her so
yellow that she scarcely knew herself in her glass.
None the less, to rescue the child, even if she had
to become falser still, would be in some measure an
atonement for the treachery to which she had already
surrendered herself. She began to hate Georgina, who
had dragged her into such an abyss, and if it had not
been for two considerations she would have insisted
on their separating. One was the deference she owed
to Mr. and Mrs. Gressie, who had reposed such a
trust in her; the other was that she must keep hold
of the mother till she had got possession of the infant.
Meanwhile, in this forced communion, her detestation
of her companion increased ; Georgina came to appear
to her a creature of clay and iron. She was ex-
ceedingly afraid of her, and it seemed to her now a
wonder of wonders that she should ever have trusted
her enough to come so far. Georgina showed no
consciousness of the change in Mrs. Portico, though
there was, indeed, at present, not even a pretence
of confidence between the two. Miss Gressie—that
was another lie to which Mrs. Portico had to lend
herseli—was bent on enjoying Europe, and was
especially delighted with Rome. She certainly had
the courage of her undertaking, and she confessed
to Mrs. Portico that she had left Raymond Benyon,
and meant to continue to leave him, in ignorance of
what had taken place at Genoa. There was a certain
confidence, it must be said, in that. He was now in
Chinese waters, and she probably should not see him
for years. Mrs. Portico took counsel with herself,
288

GEORGINA’S REASONS

and the result of her cogitation was that she wrote
to Mr. Benyon that a charming little boy had been
born to him, and that Georgina had put him to nurse
with Italian peasants ; but that, if he would kindly
consent to it, she, Mrs. Portico, would bring him
up much better than that. She knew not how to
address her letter, and Georgina, even if she should
know, which was doubtful, would never tell her; so
she sent the missive to the care of the Secretary of
the Navy, at Washington, with an earnest request
that it might immediately be forwarded. Such was
Mrs. Portico’s last effort in this strange business of
Georgina’s. I relate rather a complicated fact in
a very few words when I say that the poor lady’s
anxieties, indignations, repentances, preyed upon her
until they fairly broke her down. Various persons
whom she knew in Rome notified her that the air of
the Seven Hills was plainly unfavourable to her ; and
she had made up her mind to returm to her native
land when she found that, in her depressed condition, |
malarial fever had laid its hand upon her. She was
unable to move, and the matter was settled for her
in the course of an illness which, happily, was not
prolonged. I have said that she was not obstinate,
and the resistance she made on the present occasion
was not worthy even of her spasmodic energy. Brain-
fever made its appearance, and she died at the end
of three weeks, during which Georgina’s attentions to
her patient and protectress had been unremitting.
There were other Americans in Rome who, after this
sad event, extended to the bereaved young lady every
comfort and hospitality. She had no lack of oppor-
tunities for returning under a proper escort to New
York. She selected, you may be sure, the best, and
re-entered her father’s house, where she took to plain
dressing ; for she sent all her pocket-money, with the
utmost secrecy, to the little boy in the Genoese hills.
U

Vill

“Way should he come if he doesn’t like you? He
is under no obligation, and he has his ship to look
after. Why should he sit for an hour at a time, and
why should he be so pleasant ? ”
“‘ Do you think he is very pleasant ? ’” Kate Theory
asked, turning away her face from her sister. It was
important that Mildred should not see how little the
expression of that charming countenance corresponded
with the inquiry.
_ This precaution was useless, however, for in a
moment Mildred said, from the delicately draped
couch on which she lay at the open window, ‘‘ Kate
Theory, don’t be affected.”

‘‘ Perhaps it’s for you he comes. I don’t see why
he shouldn’t; you are far more attractive than I,
and you have a great deal more to say. How can
he help seeing that you are the cleverest of the clever ?
You can talk to him of everything: of the dates of
the different eruptions, of the statues and bronzes in
the museum, which you have never seen, poverina,
but which you know more about than he does, than
any one does. What was it you began on last time ?
Oh yes, you poured forth floods about Magna Grecia.
And then—and then——”’

But with this Kate Theory paused; she felt it
wouldn’t do to speak the words that had risen to her
lips. That her sister was as beautiful as a saint,

290

GEORGINA’S REASONS

and as delicate and refined as an angel—she had been
on the point of saying something of that sort. But
Mildred’s beauty and delicacy were the fairness of
mortal disease, and to praise her for her refinement
was just to remind her that she had the tenuity of
a consumptive. So, after she had checked herself,
the younger girl—she was younger only by a year
or two—simply kissed her tenderly and settled the
knot of the lace handkerchief that was tied over her
head. Mildred knew what she had been going to
say, knew why she had stopped. Mildred knew
everything, without ever leaving her room, or leaving,
at least, that little salon of their own, at the pension,
which she had made so pretty by simply lying there,
at the window that had the view of the bay and of
Vesuvius, and telling Kate how to arrange and how
to rearrange everything. Since it began to be plain
that Mildred must spend her small remnant of years
altogether in warm climates, the lot of the two sisters
had been cast in the ungarnished hostelries of southern
Europe. Their little sitting-room was sure to be very
ugly, and Mildred was never happy till it was re-
modelled. Her sister fell to work, as a matter of
course, the first day, and changed the place of all
the tables, sofas, chairs, till every combination had
been tried and the invalid thought at last that there
was a little effect.

Kate Theory had a taste of her own, and her
ideas were not always the same as her sister’s ; but
she did whatever Mildred liked, and if the poor girl
had told her to put the door-mat on the dining-table,
or the clock under the sofa, she would have obeyed
without a murmur. Her own ideas, her personal
tastes, had been folded up and put away, like garments
out of season, in drawers and trunks, with camphor
and lavender. They were not, as a general thing,
for southern wear, however indispensable to comfort

291

GEORGINA’S REASONS

in the climate of New England, where poor Mildred
had lost her health. Kate Theory, ever since this
event, had lived for her companion, and it was almost
an inconvenience for her to think that she was
attractive to Captain Benyon. It was as if she
had shut up her house and was not in a position to
entertain. So long as Mildred should live, her own
life was suspended ; if there should be any time after-
wards, perhaps she would take it up again; but for
the present, in answer to any knock at her door, she
could only call down from one of her dusty windows
that she was not at home. Was it really in these
terms she should have to dismiss Captain Benyon ?
If Mildred said it was for her he came she must
perhaps take upon herself such a duty; for, as we
have seen, Mildred knew everything, and she must
therefore be right. She knew about the statues in
the museum, about the excavations at Pompeii, about
the antique splendour of Magna Grecia. She always
had some instructive volume on the table beside her
sofa, and she had strength enough to hold the book
for half an hour at a time. That was about the only
strength she had now. The Neapolitan winter had
been remarkably soft, but after the first month or
two she had been obliged to give up her little walks
in the garden. It lay beneath her window like a
single enormous bouquet ; as early as May, that year,
the flowers were so dense. None of them, however,
had a colour so intense as the splendid blue of the
bay, which filled up all the rest of the view. It would
have looked painted if you had not been able to see
the little movement of the waves. Mildred Theory
watched them by the hour, and the breathing crest
of the volcano, on the other side of Naples, and the
great sea-vision of Capri, on the horizon, changing
its tint while her eyes rested there, and wondered
what would become of her sister after she was gone.
- 292

GEORGINA’S REASONS

Now that Percival was married—he was their only
brother, and from one day to the other was to come
down to Naples to show them his new wife, as yet a
complete stranger, or revealed only in the few letters
she had written them during her wedding-tour—now
that Percival was to be quite taken up, poor Kate’s
situation would be much more grave. Mildred felt
that she should be able to judge better after she
should have seen her sister-in-law how much of a
home Kate might expect to find with the pair; but
even if Agnes should prove—well, more satisfactory
than her letters, it was a wretched prospect for Kate—
this living as a mere appendage to happier people.
Maiden-aunts were very well, but being a maiden-aunt
was only a last resource, and Kate’s first resources
had not even been tried.

Meanwhile the latter young lady wondered as well,
wondered in what book Mildred had read that Captain
Benyon was in love with her. She admired him, she
thought, but he didn’t seem a man that would fall
in love with one like that. She could see that he
was on his guard: he wouldn’t throw himself away.
He thought too much of himself, or at any rate he
took too good care of himself, in the manner of a
man to whom something had happened which had
given him a lesson. Of course what had happened
was that his heart was buried somewhere, in some
woman’s grave ; he had loved some beautiful girl—
much more beautiful, Kate was sure, than she, who
thought herself meagre and dusky—and the maiden
had died, and his capacity to love had died with her,
He loved her memory; that was the only thing he
would care for now. He was quiet, gentle, clever,
humorous, and very kind in his manner ; but if any
one save Mildred had said to her that if he came
three times a week to Posilippo, it was for anything
but to pass his time (he had told them he didn’t know

293

GEORGINA’S REASONS

another lady in Naples), she would have felt that this
was simply the kind of thing—usually so idiotic—
that people always thought it necessary to say. It
was very easy for him to come ; he had the big ship’s
boat, with nothing else to do; and what could be
more delightful than to be rowed across the bay,
under a bright awning, by four brown sailors with
Louisiana in blue letters on their immaculate white
shirts and in gilt letters on their fluttering hat-ribbons ?
The boat came to the steps of the garden of the
pension, where the orange-trees hung over and made
vague yellow balls shine back out of the water. Kate
Theory knew all about that, for Captain Benyon had
persuaded her to take a turn in the boat, and if they
had only had another lady to go with them he could
have conveyed her to the ship and shown her all over
it. It looked beautiful, just a little way off, with
the American flag hanging loose in the Italian air.
They would have another lady when Agnes should
arrive ; then Percival would remain with Mildred
while they took this excursion. Mildred had stayed
alone the day she went in the boat ; she had insisted
on it, and of course it was really Mildred who had
persuaded her ; though now that Kate came to think
of it, Captain Benyon had, in his quiet, waiting way—
he turned out to be waiting long after you thought
he had let a thing pass—said a good deal about the
pleasure it would give him. Of course, everything
would give pleasure to a man who was so bored.
He was keeping the Loutsiana at Naples, week after
week, simply because these were the commodore’s
orders. There was no work to be done there, and
his time was on his hands; but of course the com-
modore, who had gone to Constantinople with the
two other ships, had to be obeyed to the letter, how-
ever mysterious his motives. It made no difference
that he was a fantastic, grumbling, arbitrary old com-

294

GEORGINA’S REASONS

modore ; only a good while afterwards it occurred
to Kate Theory that, for a reserved, correct man,
Captain Benyon had given her a considerable proof
of confidence in speaking to her in these terms of
his superior officer. If he looked at all hot when he
arrived at the pension she offered him a glass of cold
“‘ orangeade.” Mildred thought this an unpleasant
drink—she called it messy ; but Kate adored it and
Captain Benyon always accepted it.

295

TX

THE day I speak of, to change the subject, she called
her sister’s attention to the extraordinary sharpness
of a zigzagging cloud-shadow on the tinted slope of
Vesuvius ; but Mildred remarked in answer only that
she wished her sister would marry the Captain. It
was in this familiar way that constant meditation
led Miss Theory to speak of him; it shows how
constantly she thought of him, for, in general, no
one was more ceremonious than she, and the failure
of her health had not caused her to relax any form
that it was possible to keep up. There was a kind
of slim erectness even in the way she lay on her
sofa; and she always received the doctor as if he
were calling for the first time.

“IT had better wait till he asks me,’’ Kate Theory
said. “ Dear Milly, if I were to do some of the things
you wish me to do, I should shock you very much.”

“IT wish he would marry you, then. You know
there is very little time, if I wish to see it.”

“You will never see it, Mildred. I don’t see why
you should take so for granted. that I would accept
him.”’

“You will never meet a man who has so few
disagreeable qualities. He is probably not very
well off. I don’t know what is the pay of a captain
in the navy———”

296

GEORGINA’S REASONS

“It’s a relief to find there is something you don’t
know,” Kate Theory broke in.

“ But when I am gone,” her sister went on,
calmly, ‘‘ when I am gone there will be plenty for
both of you.”

The younger girl, at this, was silent for a moment ;
then she exclaimed, ‘‘ Mildred, you may be out of
health, but I don’t see why you should be dreadful | ”’

“You know that since we have been leading this
life we have seen no one we liked better,”’ said Milly.
When she spoke of the life they were leading—there
was always a soft resignation of regret and contempt
in the allusion—she meant the southern winters, the
foreign climates, the vain experiments, the lonely
waitings, the wasted hours, the interminable rains,
the bad food, the pottering, humbugging doctors, the
damp pensions, the chance encounters, the fitful
apparitions of fellow-travellers.

“Why shouldn’t you speak for yourself alone ?
I am glad you like him, Mildred.”’

“Tf you don’t like him, why do you give him
orangeade ? ”’

At this inquiry Kate began to laugh, and her
sister continued—

“‘ Of course you are glad I like him, my dear. If
I didn’t like him, and you did, it wouldn't be satis-
factory at all. I can imagine nothing more miserable ;
I shouldn’t die in any sort of comfort.”

Kate Theory usually checked this sort of allusion
—she was always too late—with a kiss; but on this
occasion she added that it was a long time since
Mildred had tormented her so much as she had done
to-day. ‘‘ You will make me hate him,” she added.

“Well, that proves you don’t already,” Milly
rejoined ; and it happened that almost at this
moment they saw, in the golden afternoon, Captain
‘Benyon’s boat approaching the steps at the end of

297

GEORGINA’S REASONS

the garden. He came that day, and he came two
days later, and he came yet once again after an
interval equally brief, before Percival Theory arrived
with Mrs. Theory from Rome. He seemed anxious to
crowd into these few days, as he would have said, a
good deal of intercourse with the two remarkably nice
girls—or nice women, he hardly knew which to call
them—whom in the course of a long, idle, rather
tedious detention at Naples, he had discovered in the
lovely suburb of Posilippo. It was the American
consul who had put him into relation with them. The
sisters had had to sign in the consul’s presence some
law-papers, transmitted to them by the man of busi-
ness who looked after their little property in America,
and the kindly functionary, taking advantage of the
pretext (Captain Benyon happened to come into the
consulate as he was starting, indulgently, to wait upon
the ladies) to bring together ‘‘ two parties ” who, as
he said, ought to appreciate each other, proposed to
his fellow-officer in the service of the United States
that he should go with him as witness of the little
ceremony. He might, of course, take his clerk, but
the Captain would do much better; and he repre-
sented to Benyon that the Miss Theorys (singular
name, wasn’t it ?) suffered, he was sure, from a lack
of society ; also that one of them was very sick, that
they were real pleasant and extraordinarily refined,
and that the sight of a compatriot literally draped,
as it were, in the national banner would cheer them
up more than most anything, and give them a sense
of protection. They had talked to the consul about
Benyon’s ship, which they could see from their
windows, in the distance, at its anchorage. They
were the only American ladies then at Naples—the
only residents, at least—and the Captain wouldn’t
be doing the polite thing unless he went to pay them
his respects. Benyon felt afresh how little it was in
298

GEORGINA’S REASONS

his line to call upon strange women ; he was not in
the habit of hunting up female acquaintance, or of
looking out for the particular emotions which the
sex only can inspire. He had his reasons for this
abstention, and he seldom relaxed it; but the consul
appealed to him on rather strong grounds. And he
suffered himself to be persuaded. He was far from
regretting, during the first weeks at least, an act which
was distinctly inconsistent with his great rule—that
of never exposing himself to the danger of becoming
entangled with an unmarried woman. He had been
obliged to make this rule, and had adhered to it with
some success. He was fond of women, but he was
forced to restrict himself to superficial sentiments.
There was no use tumbling into situations from which
the only possible issue was a retreat. The step he
had taken with regard to poor Miss Theory and her
delightful little sister was an exception on which at
first he could only congratulate himself. That had
been a happy idea of the ruminating old consul; it
made Captain Benyon forgive him his hat, his boots,
his shirt-front—a costume which might be considered
representative, and the effect of which was to make
the observer turn with rapture to a half-naked
lazzarone. On either side the acquaintance had
helped the time to pass, and the hours he spent at the
little pension at Posilippo left a sweet, and by no
means innutritive, taste behind.

As the weeks went by his exception had grown
to look a good deal like a rule; but he was able to
remind himself that the path of retreat was always
open to him. Moreover, if he should fall in love with
the younger girl there would be no great harm, for
Kate Theory was in love with her sister, and it would
matter very little to her whether he advanced or
retreated. She was very attractive, or rather she
was very attracting. Small, pale, attentive without

299

GEORGINA’S REASONS

rigidity, full of pretty curves and quick movements,
she looked as if the habit of watching and serving had
taken complete possession of her, and was literally
a little sister of charity. Her thick black hair was
pushed behind her ears, as if to help her to listen,
and her clear brown eyes had the smile of a person
too full of tact to carry a sad face to a sick-bed. She
spoke in an encouraging voice, and had soothing and
unselfish habits. She was very pretty, producing a
cheerful effect of contrasted black and white, and
dressed herself daintily, so that Mildred might have
something agreeable to look at. Benyon very soon
perceived that there was a fund of good service in her.
Her sister had it all now; but poor Miss Theory was
fading fast, and then what would become of this
precious little force? The answer to such a question
that seemed most to the point was that it was none of
his business. He was not sick—at least not physically
—and he was not looking out for a nurse. Such a
companion might be a luxury, but was not, as yet, a
necessity. The welcome of the two ladies, at first,
had been simple, and he scarcely knew what to call
it but sweet; a bright, gentle, jocular friendliness
remained the tone of their intercourse. They evi-
dently liked him to come; they liked to see his big
transatlantic ship hover about those gleaming coasts
of exile. The fact of Miss Mildred being always
stretched on her couch—in his successive visits to
foreign waters Benyon had not unlearned (as why
should he ?) the pleasant American habit of using
the lady’s personal name—made their intimacy seem
greater, their differences less ; it was as if his hostesses
had taken him into their confidence and he had been—
as the consul would have said—of the same party.
Knocking about the salt parts of the globe, with a
few feet square on a rolling frigate for his only home,
the pretty flower-decked sitting-room of the quiet

300

GEORGINA’S REASONS

American sisters became, more than anything he had
hitherto known, his interior. He had dreamed once
of having an interior, but the dream had vanished in
lurid smoke, and no such vision had come to him
again. He had a feeling that the end of this was
drawing nigh; he was sure that the advent of the
strange brother, whose wife was certain to be dis-
agreeable, would make a difference. That is why,
as I have said, he came as often as possible the last
week, after he had learned the day on which Percival
Theory would arrive. The limits of the exception
had been reached.

He had been new to the young ladies at Posilippo,
and there was no reason why they should say to each
other that he was a very different man from the
ingenuous youth who, ten years before, used to wander
with Georgina Gressie down vistas of plank-fences
brushed over with advertisements of quack medicines.
It was natural he should be, and we, who know him,
would have found that he had traversed the whole
scale of alteration. There was nothing ingenuous
in him now ; he had the look of experience, of having
been seasoned and hardened by the years. His face,
his complexion, were the same ; still smooth-shaven
and slim, he always passed, at first, for a decidedly
youthful mariner. But his expression was old, and
his talk was older still—the talk of a man who had
seen much of the world (as indeed he had to-day) and
judged most things for himself, with a humorous
scepticism which, whatever concessions it might make,
superficially, for the sake of not offending, for instance,
two remarkably nice American women who had kept
most of their illusions, left you with the conviction
that the next minute it would go quickly back to its
own standpoint. There was a curious contradiction
in him; he struck you as serious, and yet he could
not be said to take things seriously. This was what

301

GEORGINA’S REASONS

made Kate Theory feel so sure that he had lost the
object of his affections ; and she said to herself that
it must have been under circumstances of peculiar
sadness, for that was, after all, a frequent accident,
and was not usually thought, in itself, a sufficient
stroke to make a man a cynic. This reflexion,
it may be added, was, on the young lady’s part,
just the least bit acrimonious. Captain Benyon was
not a cynic in any sense in which he might have
shocked an innocent mind ; he kept his cynicism to
himself, and was a very clever, courteous, attentive
gentleman. .If he was melancholy, you knew it
chiefly by his jokes, for they were usually at his own
expense ; and if he was indifferent, it was all the more
to his credit that he should have exerted himself to
entertain his countrywomen.

302

OX

THE last time he called before the arrival of the
expected brother he found Miss Theory alone, and
sitting up, for a wonder, at her window. Kate had
driven into Naples to give orders at the hotel for
the reception of the travellers, who required accom-
modation more spacious than the villa at Posilippo
(where the two sisters had the best rooms) could offer
them ; and the sick girl had taken advantage of her
absence, and of the pretext afforded by a day of
delicious warmth, to transfer herself for the first time
in six months to an arm-chair. She was practising,
as she said, for the long carriage-journey to the north,
where, in a quiet corner they knew of, on the Lago
Maggiore, her summer was to be spent. Raymond
Benyon remarked to her that she had evidently
turned the corner and was going to get well, and this
gave her a chance to say various things that were on
her mind. She had various things on her mind, poor
Mildred Theory, so caged and restless, and yet so
resigned and patient as she was; with a clear, quick
spirit, in the most perfect health, ever reaching
forward, to the end of its tense little chain, from her
wasted and suffering body ; and, in the course of the
perfect summer afternoon, as she sat there, exhila-
rated by the success of her effort to get up and by
her comfortable opportunity, she took her friendly
visitor into the confidence of most of her anxieties.

393

GEORGINA’S REASONS

She told him, very promptly and positively, that
she was not going to get well at all, that she had
probably not more than a twelvemonth yet to live,
and that he would oblige her very much by not
forcing her to waste any more breath in contradicting
him on that head. Of course she couldn’t talk much ;
therefore she wished to say to him only things that he
would not hear from any one else. Such for instance
was her present secret—Katie’s and hers—the secret
of their fearing so much that they shouldn’t like
Percival’s wife, who was not from Boston but from
gNew York. Naturally, that by itself would be
nwthing, but from what they had heard of her set-—
th?s subject had been explored by their correspondents
__tfuey were rather nervous, nervous to the point
of n@t being in the least reassured by the fact that
the yung lady would bring Percival a fortune. The
fortune: Was a matter of course, for that was just what
they had heard about Agnes’s circle—that the stamp

was on all their thoughts and doings.
sry rich and very new and very splashing,
y had very little in common with the
“ys, who, moreover, if the truth must
be told (and this\W@s a great secret), did not care much
for the letters trfeir sister-in-law had hitherto ad-
dressed them. She had been at a French boarding-
school in New York, :2nd yet (and this was the greatest
secret of all) she wrote? to them that she had performed
a part of the journey through France in a “‘diligance ’’ |
Of course, they would s¢*¢ the next day ; Miss Mildred
was sure she should know in a moment whether
Agnes would like them. ‘ she could never have told
him all this if her sister hi.» been there, and Captain
Benyon must promise nevé r to tell Kate how she
had chattered. Kate thougi!t always that they
must hide everything, and that ¢ven if Agnes should
be a dreadful disappointment théy must never let

304

GEORGINA’S REASONS

any one guess it. And yet Kate was just the one
who would suffer, in the coming years, after she her-
self had gone. Their brother had been everything
to them, but now it would all be different. Of course
it was not to be expected that he should have remained
a bachelor for their sake: she only wished he had
waited till she was dead and Kate was married. One
of these events, it was true, was much less sure than
the other; Kate might never marry, much as she
wished she would. She was quite morbidly unselfish,
and didn’t think she had a right to have anything
of her own—not even a husband.

Miss Mildred talked a good while about Kate, and
it never occurred to her that she might bore Captain
Benyon. She didn’t, in point of fact ; he had none
of the trouble of wondering why this poor, sick,
worried lady was trying to push her sister down his
throat. Their peculiar situation made everything
natural, and the tone she took with him now seemed
only what their pleasant relations for the last three
months led up to. Moreover, he had an excellent
reason for not being bored: the fact, namely, that,
after all, with regard to her sister, Miss Mildred
appeared to him to keep back more than she uttered.
She didn’t tell him the great thing—she had nothing to
say as to what that charming girl thought of Raymond
Benyon. The effect of their interview, indeed, was
to make him shrink from knowing, and he felt that
the right thing for him would be to get back into his
boat, which was waiting at the garden-steps, before
Kate Theory should return from Naples. It came
over him, as he sat there, that he was far too interested
in knowing what this young lady thought of him.
She might think what she pleased ; it could make no
difference to him. The best opinion in the world
—if it looked out at him from her tender eyes—
would not make him a whit more free or more happy.

305 x

GEORGINA’S REASONS

Women of that sort were not for him, women whom
one could not see familiarly without falling in love
with them, and whom it was no use to fall in love with
unless one was ready to marry them. The light of the
summer afternoon, and of Miss Mildred’s pure spirit,
seemed suddenly to flood the whole subject. He saw
that he was in danger, and he had long since made up
his mind that from this particular peril it was not
only necessary but honourable to flee. He took leave
of his hostess before her sister reappeared, and had
the courage even to say to her that he should not
come back often after that ; they would be so much
occupied by their brother and his wife! As he moved
across the glassy bay, to the rhythm of the oars, he
wished either that the sisters would leave Naples
or that his confounded commodore would send for
him.

When Kate returned from her errand, ten minutes
later, Milly told her of the Captain’s visit, and added
that she had never seen anything so sudden as the
way he left her. ‘‘ He wouldn’t wait for you, my
dear, and he said he thought it more than likely that
he should never see us again. It is as if he thought
you were going to die too! ”

“Is his ship called away ? ’’ Kate Theory asked.

“He didn’t tell me so; he said we should be so
busy with Percival and Agnes.”

“He has got tired of us; that is all. There is
nothing wonderful in that ; I knew he would.”

Mildred said nothing for a moment; she was
watching her sister, who was very attentively arrang-
ing some flowers. ‘‘ Yes, of course, we are very dull,
and he is like everybody else.”

“I thought you thought he was so wonderful,”’
said Kate—“ and so fond of us.”

“So he is; I am surer of that than ever. That’s
why he went away so abruptly.”’

306

GEORGINA’S REASONS

Kate looked at her sister now. ‘“‘I don’t under-
stand.”

“Neither do I, cara. But you will, one of these
days.”

“How, if he never comes back ? ”’

“Oh, he will—after a while—when I am gone.
Then he will explain ; that, at least, is clear to me.”

“My poor precious, as if I cared! ’’ Kate Theory
exclaimed, smiling as she distributed her flowers.
She carried them to the window, to place them near
her sister, and here she paused a moment, her eye
caught by an object, far out in the bay, with which she
was not unfamiliar. Mildred noticed its momentary
look, and followed its direction.

“It’s the Captain’s gig going back to the ship,”

Milly said. “It’s so still one can almost hear the
Oars.” :
Kate Theory turned away, with a sudden, strange
violence, a movement and exclamation which, the
very next minute, as she became conscious of what
she had said—and, still more, of what she felt—smote
her own heart (as it flushed her face) with surprise
and with the force of a revelation. ‘‘ I wish it would
sink him to the bottom of the sea! ”

Her sister stared, then caught her by the dress,
as she passed from her, drawing her back with a
weak hand. “Oh, my darling dear!’ And she
drew Kate down and down toward her, so that the
girl had nothing for it but to sink on her knees and
bury her face in Mildred’s lap. If that ingenious
invalid did not know everything now, she knew a
great deal.

3°97

XI

Mrs. PERCIVAL proved very pretty; it is more
gracious to begin with this declaration, instead of
saying, in the first place, that she proved very vapid.
It took a long day to arrive at the end of her silliness,
and the two ladies at Posilippo, even after a week
had passed, suspected that they had only skirted its
edges. Kate Theory had not spent half an hour in
her company before she gave a little private sigh of
relief ; she felt that a situation which had promised
to be embarrassing was now quite clear, was even of
a primitive simplicity. She would spend with her
sister-in-law, in the coming time, one week in the year ;
that was all that would be mortally possible. It was
a blessing that one could see exactly what she was,
for in that way the question settled itself. It would
have been much more tiresome if Agnes had been
a little less obvious; then one would have had to
hesitate and consider and weigh one thing against
another. She was pretty and silly, as distinctly as
an orange is yellow and round; and Kate Theory
would as soon have thought of looking to her to give
interest to the future as she would have thought of
looking to an orange to impart solidity to the prospect
of dinner. Mrs. Percival travelled in the hope of
meeting her American acquaintance, or of making
acquaintance with such Americans as she did meet,
and for the purpose of buying mementoes for her

308

GEORGINA’S REASONS

relations. She was perpetually adding to her store of
articles in tortoise-shell, in mother-of-pearl, in olive-
wood, in ivory, in filigree, in tartan lacquer, in mosaic;
and she had a collection of Roman scarfs and Venetian
beads which she looked over exhaustively every
night before she went to bed. Her conversation
bore mainly upon the manner in which she intended
to dispose of these accumulations. She was con-
stantly changing about, among each other, the persons
to whom they were respectively to be offered. At
Rome one of the first things she said to her husband
after entering the Coliseum had been, “I guess I will
give the ivory work-box to Bessie and the Roman
pearls to Aunt Harriet!’’ She was always hanging
over the travellers’ book at the hotel; she had it
brought up to her, with a cup of chocolate, as soon as
she arrived. She searched its pages for the magical
name of New York, and she indulged in infinite con-
jecture as to who the people were—the name was
sometimes only a partial cue—who had inscribed it
there. What she most missed in Europe, and what
she most enjoyed, was the New Yorkers ; when she
met them she talked about the people in their native
city who had ‘‘ moved” and the streets they had
moved to. ‘‘ Oh yes, the Drapers are going up town,
to Twenty-fourth Street, and the Vanderdeckens are
going to be in Twenty-third Street, right back of them.
My uncle, Mr. Henry Platt, thinks of building round
there.”’ Mrs. Percival Theory was capable of repeat-
ing statements like these thirty times over—of linger-
ing on them for hours. She talked largely of herself,
of her uncles and aunts, of her clothes—past, present
and future. These articles, in especial, filled her
horizon ; she considered them with a complacency
which might have led you to suppose that she had
invented the custom of draping the human form.
Her main point of contact with Naples was the

399

GEORGINA’S REASONS

purchase of coral ; and all the while she was there the
word “‘ set ’’—she used it as if every one would under-
stand—fell with its little flat, common sound upon
the ears of her sisters-in-law, who had no sets of
anything. She cared little for pictures and moun-
tains ; Alps and Apennines were not productive of
New Yorkers, and it was difficult to take an interest in
Madonnas who flourished at periods when apparently
there were no fashions, or at any rate no trimmings.

I speak here not only of the impression she made
upon her husband’s anxious sisters, but of the judge-
ment passed on her (he went so far as that, though it
was not obvious how it mattered to him) by Raymond
Benyon. And this brings me at a jump (I confess it’s
a very small one) to the fact that he did, after all, go
back to Posilippo. He stayed away for nine days, and
at the end of this time Percival Theory called upon
him to thank him for the civility he had shown his
kinswomen. He went to this gentleman’s hotel, to
return his visit, and there he found Miss Kate, in
her brother’s sitting-room. She had come in by
appointment from the villa, and was going with the
others to look at the royal palace, which she had not
yet had an opportunity to inspect. It was proposed
(not by Kate), and presently arranged, that Captain
Benyon should go with them; and he accordingly
walked over marble floors for half an hour, exchanging
conscious commonplaces with the woman he loved.
For this truth had rounded itself during those nine
days of absence; he discovered that there was
‘nothing particularly sweet in his life when once
Kate Theory had been excluded from it. He had
stayed away to keep himself from falling in love with
her; but this expedient was in itself illuminating,
for he perceived that, according to the vulgar adage,
he was locking the stable-door after the horse had
been stolen. As he paced the deck of his ship and

310

GEORGINA’S REASONS

looked toward Posilippo his tenderness crystallised ;
the thick, smoky flame of a sentiment that knew
itself forbidden, and was angry at the knowledge,
now danced upon the fuel of his good resolutions.
The latter, it must be said, resisted, declined to be
consumed. He determined that he would see Kate
Theory again, for a time just sufficient to bid her good-
bye and to add a little explanation. He thought of
his explanation very lovingly, but it may not strike
the reader as a happy inspiration. To part from her
dryly, abruptly, without an allusion to what he might
have said if everything had been different—that
would be wisdoin, of course, that would be virtue,
that would be the line of a practical man, of a man
who kept himself well in hand. But it would be
virtue terribly unrewarded—it would be virtue too
austere even for a person who flattered himself that
he had taught himself stoicism. The minor luxury
tempted him irresistibly, since the larger—that of
happy love—was denied him; the luxury of letting
the girl know that it would not be an accident—oh,
not at all—that they should never meet again. She
might easily think it was, and thinking it was would
doubtless do her no harm. But this wouldn’t give
him his pleasure—the platonic satisfaction of express-
ing to her at the same time his belief that they might
have made each other happy and the necessity of his
renunciation. That, probably, wouldn’t hurt her
either, for she had given him no proof whatever that
she cared forhim. The nearest approach to it was the
way she walked beside him now, sweet and silent,
without the least reference to his not having come
back to the villa. The place was cool and dusky,
the blinds were drawn to keep out the light and noise,
and the little party wandered through the high saloons,
where precious marbles and the gleam of gilding and
. satin made reflexions in the rich dimness. Here and
31

GEORGINA’S REASONS

there the cicerone, in slippers, with Neapolitan
familiarity, threw open a shutter to show off a picture
or a tapestry. He strolled in front with Percival
Theory and his wife, while this lady, drooping silently
from her husband’s arm as they passed, felt the stuff
of the curtains and the sofas. When he caught her
in these experiments the cicerone, in expressive
deprecation, clasped his hands and lifted his eyebrows ;
whereupon Mrs. Theory exclaimed to her husband,
“Oh, bother his old king!” It was not striking to
Captain Benyon why Percival Theory had married
the niece of Mr. Henry Platt. He was less interesting
than his sisters—a smooth, cool, correct young man,
who frequently took out a pencil and did a little
arithmetic on the back of a letter. He sometimes, in
spite of his correctness, chewed a toothpick, and he
missed the American papers, which he used to ask
for in the most unlikely places. He was a Bostonian
converted to New York; a very special type.

“Ts it settled when you leave Naples?’ Benyon
asked of Kate Theory.

“T think so; on the twenty-fourth. My brother
has been very kind; he has lent us his carriage,
which is a large one, so that Mildred can lie down.
He and Agnes will take another; but of course we
shall travel together.”

‘‘T wish to heaven I were going with you!’ Captain
Benyon said. He had given her the opportunity to
respond, but she did not take it ; she merely remarked,
with a vague laugh, that of course he couldn’t take
his ship over the Apennines. “‘ Yes, there is always
my ship,” he went on. ‘ I am afraid that in future
it will carry me far away from you.”

They were alone in one of the royal apartments ;
their companions had passed, in advance of them, into
the adjoining room. Benyon and his fellow-visitor
dad paused beneath one of the immense chandeliers

312

GEORGINA’S REASONS

of glass, which in the clear, coloured gloom, through
which one felt the strong outer light of Italy beating
in, suspended its twinkling drops from the decorated
vault. They looked round them confusedly, made
shy for the moment by Benyon’s having struck a note
more serious than any that had hitherto sounded
between them, looked at the sparse furniture, draped
in white overalls, at the scagliola floor, in which the
great cluster of crystal pendants seemed to shine
again.

‘You are master of your ship—can’t you sail it
as you like? ’’ Kate Theory asked, with a smile.

“IT am not master of anything. There is not a
man in the world less free. I ama slave. I ama
victim.”

She looked at him with kind eyes ; something in
his voice suddenly made her put away all thought of
the defensive airs that a girl, in certain situations,
is expected to assume. She perceived that he wanted
to make her understand something, and now her only
wish was to help him tosayit. ‘“‘ You are not happy,”
she murmured simply, her voice dying away in a kind
of wonderment at this reality.

The gentle touch of her words—it was as if her
hand had stroked his cheek—seemed to him the
sweetest thing he had ever known. ‘“ No, I am not
happy, because I am not free. If I were—if I were,
I would give up my ship, I would give up everything,
to follow you. I can’t explain; that is part of the
hardness of it. I only want you to know it, that
if certain things were different, if everything was
different, I might tell you that I believe I should
have a right to speak to you. Perhaps some day
it will change ; but probably then it will be too late.
Meanwhile, I have no right of any kind. I don’t
want to trouble you, and I don’t ask of you—anything !
It is only to have spoken just once. I don’t make

313

GEORGINA’S REASONS

you understand, of course. I am afraid I seem to
you rather a brute, perhaps even a humbug. Don’t
think of it now; don’t try to understand. But some
day, in the future, remember what I have said to
you, and how we stood here, in this strange old place,
alone! Perhaps it will give you a little pleasure.’’

Kate Theory began by listening to him with visible
eagerness ; but in a moment she turned away her
eyes. ‘‘ I am very sorry for you,” she said, gravely.

“Then you do understand enough ? ”’

“T shall think of what you have said—in the
future.”

Benyon’s lips formed the beginning of a word of
tenderness, which he instantly suppressed; and in
a different tone, with a bitter smile and a sad shake
of the head, raising his arms a moment and letting
them fall, he rejoined, ‘‘ It won’t hurt any one, your
remembering this ! ”’

‘““T don’t know whom you mean.” And the girl,
abruptly, began to walk to the end of the room.
He made no attempt to tell her whom he meant, and
they proceeded together in silence till they overtook
their companions.

314

. XI

THERE were several pictures in the neighbouring room,
and Percival Theory and his wife had stopped to look
at one of them, of which the cicerone announced the
title and the authorship as Benyon came up. It was
a modern portrait of a Bourbon princess, a woman
young, fair, handsome, covered with jewels. Mrs.
Percival appeared to be more struck with it than
with anything the palace had yet offered to her sight,
while her sister-in-law walked to the window, which
the custodian had opened, to look out into the garden.
Benyon noticed this ; he was conscious that he had
given the girl something to reflect upon, and his ears
burned a little as he stood beside Mrs. Percival and
looked up, mechanically, at the royal lady. He already
repented a little of what he had said ; for, after all,
what wasthe use? And he hoped the others wouldn't
observe that he had been making love.

‘‘ Gracious, Percival! Do you see who she looks
like ?’’ Mrs. Theory said to her husband.

“She looks like a lady who has a big bill at
Tiffany’s,’’ this gentleman answered.

“She looks like my sister-in-law ; the eyes, the
mouth, the way the hair’s done—the whole thing.”

*‘ Which do you mean? You have got about a
dozen.”

“‘ Why, Georgina, of course—Georgina Roy. She’s
awfully like.”

315

GEORGINA’S REASONS

‘“Do you call her your sister-in-law?” Percival
Theory asked. ‘‘ You must want very much to
claim her.”’

“‘ Well, she’s handsome enough. You have got to
invent some new name, then. Captain Benyon, what
do you call your brother-in-law’s second wife?”
Mrs. Percival continued, turning to her neighbour,
who still stood staring at the portrait. At first he
had looked without seeing ; then sight, and hearing
as well, became quick. They were suddenly peopled
with thrilling recognitions. The Bourbon princess—
the eyes, the mouth, the way the hair was done,
these things took on an identity, and the gaze of the
painted face seemed to fasten itself to his own. But
who in the world was Georgina Roy, and what was
this talk about sisters-in-law? He turned to the
little lady at his side a countenance unexpectedly
puzzled by the problem she had lightly presented
to him.

“Your brother-in-law’s second wife? That’s
rather complicated.”’

“ Well, of course, he needn't have married again,”
said Mrs. Percival, with a small sigh.

‘Whom did he marry ? ”’ asked Benyon, staring.
Percival Theory had turned away. ‘ Oh, if you are
going into her relationships,’ he murmured, and
joined his sister at the brilliant window, through
which, from the distance, the many-voiced uproar
of Naples came in.

‘* He married first my sister Cora, and she died five
years ago. Then he married her’ ; and Mrs. Percival
nodded at the princess.

Benyon’s eyes went back to the portrait ; he could
see what she meant—it stared out at him. “ Her?
Georgina ? ”’

“‘ Georgina Gressie ! Gracious, do you know her ? ”

It was very distinct—that answer of Mrs. Percival’s,

316

GEORGINA’S REASONS

and the question that followed it as well. But he
had the resource of the picture ; he could look at it,
seem to take it very seriously, though it danced up
and down before him. He felt that he was turning
red, then he felt that he was turning pale. ‘‘ The
brazen impudence!’’ That was the way he could
speak to himself now of the woman he had once
loved, and whom he afterwards hated, till this had
died out too. Then the wonder of it was lost in the
quickly growing sense that it would make a difference
for him—a great difference. Exactly what, he didn’t
see yet; only a difference that swelled and swelled
as he thought of it, and caught up, in its expansion,
the gir] who stood behind him so quietly, looking into
the Italian garden.

The custodian drew Mrs. Percival away to show
her another princess, before Benyon answered her
last inquiry. This gave him time to recover from
his first impulse, which had been to answer it with
a negative; he saw in a moment that an admission
of his acquaintance with Mrs. Roy (Mrs. Roy !—it
was prodigious !) was necessarily helping him to Jearn
more. Besides, it needn’t be compromising. Very
likely Mrs. Percival would hear one day that he had
once wanted to marry her. So, when he joined his
companions a minute later he remarked that he had
known Miss Gressie years before, and had even
admired her considerably, but had lost sight of her
entirely in later days. She had been a great beauty,
and it was a wonder that she had not married earlier.
Five years ago, was it? No, it was only two. He
had been going to say that in so long a time it would
have been singular he should not have heard of it.
He had been away from New York for ages ; but one
always heard of marriages and deaths. This was a
proof, though two years was rather long. He led
‘Mrs. Percival insidiously into a further room, in

317

GEORGINA’S REASONS

advance of the others, to whom the cicerone returned.
She was delighted to talk about her “ connexions,”’
and she supplied him with every detail. He could
trust himself now ; his self-possession was complete,
or, so far as it was wanting, the fault was that of a
sudden gaiety which he could not, on the spot, have
accounted for. Of course it was not very flattering
to them—Mrs. Percival’s own people—that poor
Cora’s husband should have consoled himself; but
men always did it (talk of widows!) and he had
chosen a girl who was—well, very fine-looking, and
the sort of successor to Cora that they needn’t be
ashamed of. She had been awfully admired, and no
one had understood why she had waited so long to
marry. She had had some affair as a girl—an
engagement to an officer in the army—and the man
had jilted her, or they had quarrelled, or something
or other. She was almost an old maid—well, she
was thirty, or very nearly—but she had done some-
thing good now. She was handsomer than ever, and
tremendously striking. William Roy had one of
the biggest incomes in the city, and he was quite
affectionate. He had been intensely fond of Cora—
he often spoke of her still, at least to her own relations ;
and her portrait, the last time Mrs. Percival was in
his house (it was at a party, after his marriage to
Miss Gressie), was still in the front parlour. Perhaps
by this time he had had it moved to the back; but
she was sure he would keep it somewhere, anyway.
Poor Cora had had no children; but Georgina was
making that all right; she had a beautiful boy.
Mrs. Percival had what she would have called quite
a pleasant chat with Captain Benyon about Mrs. Roy.
Perhaps he was the officer—she never thought of that !
He was sure he had never jilted her? And he had
never quarrelled with a lady? Well, he must be
different from most men.
318

GEORGINA’S REASONS

He certainly had the air of being so before he
parted that afternoon with Kate Theory. This young
lady, at least, was free to think him wanting in that
consistency which is supposed to be a distinctively
masculine virtue. An hour before he had taken an
eternal farewell of her ; and now he was alluding to
future meetings, to future visits, proposing that, with
her sister-in-law, she should appoint an early day
for coming to see the Louisiana. She had supposed
she understood him, but it would appear now that
she had not understood him at all. His manner
had changed too. More and more off his guard,
Raymond Benyon was not aware how much more
hopeful an expression it gave him, his irresistible sense
that somehow or other this extraordinary proceeding
of his wife’s would set him free. Kate Theory felt
rather weary and mystified, all the more for knowing
that henceforth Captain Benyon’s variations would
be the most important thing in life for her.

319

XIII

THAT officer, on his ship in the bay, lingered very
late on the deck that night—lingered there, indeed,
under the warm southern sky, in which the stars
glittered with a hot, red light, until the early dawn
began to show. He smoked cigar after cigar; he
walked up and down by the hour ; he was agitated
by a thousand reflexions; he repeated to himself
that it made a difference—an immense difference ;
but the pink light had deepened in the east before
he had discovered in what the change consisted. By
that time he saw it clearly—it consisted in Georgina’s
being in his power now, in place of his being in hers.
He laughed as he sat alone in the darkness at the
thought of what she had done. It had occurred to
him more than once that she would do it ; he believed
her capable of anything ; but the accomplished fact
had a freshness of comicality. He thought of William
Roy, of his big income, of his being “ quite affectionate,”’
of his blooming son and heir, of his having found such
a worthy successor to poor Mrs. Cora. He wondered
whether Georgina had mentioned to him that she
had a husband living, but was strongly of the belief
that she had not. Why should she, after all? She
had neglected to mention it to so many others. He
had thought he knew her, in so many years, that
he had nothing more to learn about her, but this ripe
stroke revived his sense of her audacity. Of course

320

GEORGINA’S REASONS

it was what she had been waiting for, and if she had
not done it sooner it was because she had hoped he
would be lost at sea in one of his long cruises and
relieve her of the necessity of a crime. How she
must hate him to-day for not having been lost, for
being alive, for continuing to put her in the wrong !
Much as she hated him, however, his own loathing
was at least a match for hers. She had done him
the foulest of wrongs—she had ravaged his life.
That he should ever detest in this degree a woman
whom he had once loved as he loved her he would
not have thought possible in his innocent younger
years. But neither would he have thought it possible
then that a woman should be such a cold-blooded
devil as she had been. His love had perished in his
rage, his blinding, impotent rage, at finding that he
had been duped and measuring his impotence. When
he learned, years before, from Mrs. Portico, what she
had done with her baby, of whose entrance into life
she herself had given him no intimation, he felt that
he was face to face with a full revelation of her nature.
Before that it had puzzled him, it had mocked him ;
his relations with her were bewildering, stupefying.
But when, after obtaining, with difficulty and delay,
a leave of absence from Government, and betaking
himself to Italy to look for the child and assume
possession of it, he had encountered absolute failure
and defeat, then the case presented itself to him more
simply. He perceived that he had mated himself
with a creature who just happened to be a monster,
a human exception altogether. That was what he
couldn’t pardon—her conduct about the child ; never,
never, never! To him she might have done what
she chose—dropped him, pushed him out into eternal
cold, with his hands fast tied—and he would have
accepted it, excused her almost, admitted that it had
been his business to mind better what he was about.
321 Y

GEORGINA’S REASONS

But she had tortured him through the poor little
irrecoverable son whom he had never seen, through
the heart and the human vitals that she had not
herself, and that he had to have, poor wretch, for
both of them.

All his effort, for years, had been to forget those
horrible months, and he had cut himself off from them
so that they seemed at times to belong to the life
of another person. But to-night he lived them over
again ; he retraced the different gradations of dark-
ness through which he had passed, from the moment,
so soon after his extraordinary marriage, when it
came over him that she already repented and meant,
if possible, to elude all her obligations. This was
the moment when he saw why she had reserved
herself—in the strange vow she extracted from him
—an open door for retreat ; the moment, too, when
her having had such an inspiration (in the midst of
her momentary good faith, if good faith it had ever
been) struck him as a proof of her essential depravity.
What he had tried to forget came back to him: the
child that was not his child produced for him when
he fell upon that squalid nest of peasants in the
Genoese country, and then the confessions, retracta-
tions, contradictions, lies, terrors, threats, and general
bottomless, baffling mendacity and idiocy of every
one in the place. The child was gone; that had
been the only definite thing. The woman who had
taken it to nurse had a dozen different stories, her
husband had as many, and every one in the village
had a hundred more. Georgina had been sending
money—she had managed, apparently, to send a
good deal—and the whole country seemed to have
been living on it and making merry. At one moment,
the baby had died and received a most expensive
burial ; at another, he had been entrusted (for more
healthy air, Santissima Madonna!) to the woman's

322

GEORGINA’S REASONS

cousin, in another village. According to a version
which for a day or two Benyon had inclined to think
the least false, he had been taken by the cousin (for
his beauty’s sake) to Genoa, when she went for the
first time in her life to the town to see her daughter
in service there, and had been confided for a few hours
to a third woman, who was to keep him while the
cousin walked about the streets, but who, having no
child of her own, took such a fancy to him that she
refused to give him up, and a few days later left the
place (she was a Pisana) never to be heard of more.
The cousin had forgotten her name—it had happened
six months before. Benyon spent a year looking
up and down Italy for his child, and inspecting
hundreds of swaddled infants, inscrutable candidates
for recognition. Of course he could only get further
and further from real knowledge, and his search was
arrested by the conviction that it was making him
mad. He set his teeth and made up his mind, or
tried to, that the baby had died in the hands of its
nurse. This was, after all, much the likeliest sup-
position, and the woman had maintained it, in the
hope of being rewarded for her candour, quite as
often as she had asseverated that it was still some-
where, alive, in the hope of being remunerated for
her good news. It may be imagined with what
sentiments toward his wife Benyon had emerged
from this episode. To-night his memory went further
‘back—back to the beginning and to the days when
he had had to ask himself, with all the crudity of
his first surprise, what in the name of perversity she
had wished to do with him. The answer to this
speculation was so old, it had dropped so out of the
line of recurrence, that it was now almost new again.
Moreover, it was only approximate, for, as I have
already said, he could comprehend such baseness as
little at the end as at the beginning. She had found

323

GEORGINA'S REASONS

herself on a slope which her nature forced her to
descend to the bottom. She did him the honour of
wishing to enjoy his society, and she did herself the
honour of thinking that their intimacy, however
brief, must have a certain consecration. She felt
that with him, after his promise (he would have made
any promise to lead her on), she was secure, secure
as she had proved to be, secure as she must think
herself. That security had helped her to ask herself,
after the first flush of passion was over, and her native,
her twice-inherited worldliness had had time to open
its eyes again, why she should keep faith with a man
whose deficiencies (as a husband before the world—
another affair) had been so scientifically exposed to
her by her parents. So she had simply determined
not to keep faith; and her determination, at least,
she did keep.

By the time Benyon turned in he had satisfied
himself, as I say, that Georgina was now in his power ;
and this seemed to him such an improvement in his
situation that he allowed himself, for the next ten
days, a license which made Kate Theory almost as
happy as it made her sister, though she pretended
to understand it far less. Mildred sank to her rest,
or rose to fuller comprehensions, within the year, in
the Isle of Wight; and Captain Benyon, who had
never written so many letters as since they left Naples,
sailed westward about the same time as the sweet
survivor. For the Louststana at last was ordered home.

XIV

CERTAINLY, I will see you if you come, and you may
appoint any day or hour you like. I should have seen
you with pleasure any time these last years. Why
should we not be friends, as we used to be? Perhaps
we shall be yet. I say “ perhaps ’”’ only, on purpose,
because your note is rather vague about your state of
mind. Don’t come with any idea about making me
nervous or uncomfortable. I am not nervous by nature,
thank heaven, and I won't, I positively won’t (do you
hear, dear Captain Benyon ?) be uncomfortable. I have
been so (it served me right) for years and years; but
Iam very happy now. To remain so is the very definite
intention of yours ever GEORGINA Roy.

This was the answer Benyon received to a short
letter that he despatched to Mrs. Roy after his return
to America. It was not till he had been there some
weeks that he wrote to her. He had been occupied
in various ways: he had had to look after his ship ;
he had had to report at Washington ; he had spent
a fortnight with his mother at Portsmouth, N.H. ;
and he had paid a visit to Kate Theory in Boston.
She herself was paying visits ; she was staying with
various relatives and friends. She had more colour
—it was very delicately rosy—than she had had of
old, in spite of her black dress; and the effect of
her looking at him seemed to him to make her eyes
grow prettier still. Though sisterless now, she was
not without duties, and Benyon could easily see that

325

GEORGINA’S REASONS

life would press hard on her unless some one should
interfere. Every one regarded her as just the person
to do certain things. Every one thought she could
do everything, because she had nothing else to do.
She used to read to the blind, and, more onerously,
to the deaf. She looked after other people’s children
while the parents attended anti-slavery conventions.

She was coming to New York, later, to spend a
week at her brother’s, but beyond this she had no idea
what she should do. Benyon felt it to be awkward
that he should not be able just now to tell her ; and
this had much to do with his coming to the point,
for he accused himself of having rather hung fire.
Coming to the point, for Benyon, meant writing a
note to Mrs. Roy (as he must call her), in which he
asked whether she would see him if he should present
himself. The missive was short; it contained, in
addition to what I have hinted, little more than the
remark that he had something of importance to say
to her. Her reply, which we have just read, was
prompt. Benyon designated an hour, and rang the
door-bell of her big modern house, whose polished
windows seemed to shine defiance at him.

As he stood on the steps, looking up and down
the straight vista of the Fifth Avenue, he perceived
that he was trembling a little, that he was nervous,
if she were not. He was ashamed of his agitation,
and he pulled himself vigorously together. After-
wards he saw that what had made him nervous was
not any doubt of the goodness of his cause, but his
revived sense (as he drew near her) of his wife’s
hardness, her capacity for insolence. He might only
break himself against that, and the prospect made
him feel helpless. She kept him waiting for a long
time after he had been introduced ; and as he walked
up and down her drawing-room, an immense, florid,
expensive apartment, covered with blue satin, gilding,

326

GEORGINA’S REASONS

mirrors and bad frescoes, it came over him as a cer-
tainty that her delay was calculated. She wished to
annoy him, to weary him; she was as ungenerous as
she was unscrupulous. It never occurred to him that,
in spite of the bold words of her note, she, too, might
be in a tremor, and if any one in their secret had
suggested that she was afraid to meet him, he would
have laughed at this idea. This was of bad omen
for the success of his errand; for it showed that he
recognised the ground of her presumption—his having
the superstition of old promises. By the time she
appeared he was flushed, very angry. She closed
the door behind her, and stood there looking at him,
with the width of the room between them.

The first emotion her presence excited was a quick
sense of the strange fact that, after all these years of
loneliness, such a magnificent person should be his
wife. For she was magnificent, in the maturity of
her beauty, her head erect, her complexion splendid,
her auburn tresses undimmed, a certain plenitude in
her very glance. He saw in a moment that she
wished to see him beautiful, she had endeavoured
to dress herself to the best effect. Perhaps, after all,
it was only for this she had delayed ; she wished to
give herself every possible touch. For some moments
they said nothing; they had not stood face to face
for nearly ten years, and they met now as adversaries.
No two persons could possibly be more interested in
taking each other’s measure. It scarcely belonged
to Georgina, however, to have too much the air of
timidity, and after a moment, satisfied, apparently,
that she was not to receive a broadside, she advanced,
slowly, rubbing her jewelled hands and smiling. He
wondered why she should smile, what thought was
in her mind. His impressions followed each other
with extraordinary quickness of pulse, and now he
saw, in addition to what he had already perceived,

327

GEORGINA’S REASONS

that she was waiting to take her cue: she had
determined on no definite line. There was nothing
definite about her but her courage; the rest would
depend upon him. As for her courage, it seemed to
glow in the beauty which grew greater as she came
nearer, with her eyes on his and her fixed smile; to
be expressed in the very perfume that accompanied
her steps. By this time he had got a still further
impression, and it was the strangest of all. She was
ready for anything, she was capable of anything, she
wished to surprise him with her beauty, to remind
him that it belonged, after all, at the bottom of
everything, to him. She was ready to bribe him, if
bribing should be necessary. She had carried on an
intrigue before she was twenty; it would be more,
rather than less, easy for her now that she was thirty.
All this and more was in her cold, living eyes, as,
in the prolonged silence, they engaged themselves
with his; but I must not dwell upon it, for reasons
extraneous to the remarkable fact. She was a truly
amazing creature.

“Raymond !’’ she said, in a low voice—a voice
which might represent either a vague greeting or an
appeal.

He took no heed of the exclamation, but asked
her why she had deliberately kept him waiting, as
if she had not made a fool enough of him already.
She couldn’t suppose it was for his pleasure he had
come into the house.

She hesitated a moment, still with her smile.
“‘T must tell you I have a son, the dearest little boy.
His nurse happened to be engaged for the moment,
and I had to watch him. I am more devoted to him
than you might suppose.”

He fell back from her a few steps. “I wonder if
you are insane,” he murmured.

“To allude to my child? Why do you ask me

328

GEORGINA’S REASONS

such questions then? I tell you the simple truth.
I take every care of this one. I am older and wiser.
The other one was a complete mistake; he had no
right to exist.”

“Why didn’t you kill him then with your own
hands, instead of that torture ? ”’

“Why didn’t I kill myself? That question
would be more to the point. You are looking
wonderfully well,” she broke off, in another tone ;
“hadn’t we better sit down ? ”

“TI didn’t come here for the advantage of con
versation,’’ Benyon answered. And he was going
on, but she interrupted him.

“You came to say something dreadful, very likely ;
though I hoped you would see it was better not.
But just tell me this, before you begin. Are you
successful, are you happy? It has been so provoking,
not knowing more about you.”

There was something in the manner in which this
was said that caused him to break into a loud laugh ;
whereupon she added—

“Your laugh is just what it used to be. How
it comes back to me! You have improved in
appearance,’ she continued.

She had seated herseJf, though he remained
standing ; and she leaned back in a low, deep chair,
looking up at him, with her arms folded. He stood
near her and over her, as it were, dropping his baffled
eyes on her, with his hand resting on the corner of
the chimney-piece. ‘‘ Has it never occurred to you
that I may deem myself absolved from the promise
I made you before I married you ? ”’

“Very often, of course. But I have instantly
dismissed the idea. How can you be ‘ absolved’ ?
One promises, or one doesn’t. I attach no meaning
to that, and neither do you.” And she glanced
‘down at the front of her dress.

329

GEORGINA’S REASONS

Benyon listened, but he went on as if he had not
heard her. ‘‘ What I came to say to you is this:
that I should like your consent to my bringing a suit
for divorce against you.”

‘“‘ A suit for divorce? I never thought of that.”

‘So that I may marry another woman. I can
easily obtain a divorce on the ground of your desertion.
It will simplify our situation.”

She stared a moment, then her smile solidified,
as it were, and she looked grave; but he could see
that her gravity, with her lifted eyebrows, was partly
assumed. “Ah, you want to marry another woman!”’
she exclaimed, slowly, thoughtfully. He said nothing,
and she went on, ‘‘ Why don’t you do as I have
done?”

‘‘ Because I don’t want my children to be——

Before he could say the words she sprang up,
checking him with a cry. “ Don’t say it; it isn’t
necessary ! Of course I know what you mean; but
they won't be if no one knows it.”

“ T should object to knowing it myself ; it’s enough
for me to know it of yours.”

‘‘ Of course I have been prepared for your saying
that.”

‘“‘T should hope so!’’ Benyon exclaimed. ‘“ You
may be a bigamist, if it suits you, but to me the
idea is not attractive. I wish to marry——” and,
hesitating a moment, with his slight stammer, he
repeated, “ I wish to marry——”

“Marry, then, and have done with it!” cried
Mrs. Roy.

He could already see that he should be able to
extract no consent from her; he felt rather sick.
“It’s extraordinary to me that you shouldn’t be
more afraid of being found out,” he said, after a
moment’s reflexion. “There are two or three
possible accidents.”

a)

330

GEORGINA’S REASONS

“How do you know how much afraid I am? I
have thought of every accident, in dreadful nights.
How do you know what my life is, or what it has
been all these horrid years? But every one is
dead.”

‘You look wasted and worn, certainly.”

‘“‘ Ah, don’t compliment me!’’ Georgina exclaimed.
“ Tf I had never known you—if I had not been through
all this—I believe I should have been handsome.
When did you hear of my marriage? Where were
you at the time ? ”

“At Naples, more than six months ago, by a mere
chance.”

‘“‘ How strange that it should have taken you so
long! Is the lady a Neapolitan? They don’t mind
what they do over there.”

‘“‘T have no information to give you beyond what
I have just said,” Benyon rejoined. ‘‘ My life doesn’t
in the least regard you.”

“Ah, but it does from the moment I refuse to
let you divorce me.”

“* You refuse ? ’’ Benyon said, softly.

“Don’t look at me that way! You haven’t
advanced so rapidly as I used to think you would ;
you haven’t distinguished yourself so much,” she
went on, irrelevantly.

‘‘T shall be promoted commodore one of these
days,” Benyon answered. ‘“ You don’t know much
about it, for my advancement has already been
extraordinarily rapid.”” He blushed as soon as the
words were out of his mouth. She gave a light laugh
on seeing it; but he took up his hat and added, ‘‘ Think
over a day or two what I have proposed to you.
It’s a perfectly possible proceeding. Think’ of the
temper in which I ask it.”’

“The temper? ’”’ she stared. “ Pray, what have
you to do with temper?’ And as he made no

331

GEORGINA’S REASONS

reply, smoothing his hat with his glove, she went
on, ‘‘ Years ago, as much as you please! you had
a good right, I don’t deny, and you raved, in your
letters, to your heart’s content. That’s why I wouldn't
see you; I didn’t wish to take it full in the face.
But that’s all over now; time is a healer; you have
cooled off, and by your own admission you have
consoled yourself. Why do you talk to me about
temper? What in the world have I done to you
but let you alone ? ”’

““ What do you call this business ?’’ Benyon asked,
with his eye flashing all over the room.

‘“‘ Ah, excuse me, that doesn’t touch you; it’s my
affair. I leave you your liberty, and I can live as I
like. If I choose to live in this way, it may be queer
(I admit it is, tremendously), but you have nothing
to say to it. If I am willing to take the tisk, you
may be. If I am willing to play such an infernal
trick upon a confiding gentleman (I will put it as
strongly as you possibly could), I don’t see what you
have to say to it except that you are exceedingly
glad such a woman as that isn’t known to be your
wife !’’ She had been cool and deliberate up to this
time, but with these words her latent agitation broke
out. ‘“‘ Do you think I have been happy? Do you
think I have enjoyed existence? Do you see me
freezing up into a stark old maid? ”

“IT wonder you stood out so long,”’ said Benyon.

“I wonder I did! They were bad years.”

“ T have no doubt they were! ”

** You could do as you pleased,’’ Georgina went
on. “You roamed about the world, you formed
charming relations. I am delighted to hear it from
yourownlips. Think of my going back to my father’s
house—that family vault—and living there, year after
year, as Miss Gressie! If you remember my father
and mother—they are round in Twelfth Street, just

332

GEORGINA’S REASONS

the same— you must admit that I paid for my
folly !”’

“‘ Thave never understood you ; I don’t understand
you now,” said Benyon.

She looked at him a moment. “ I adored you.”
e ‘TI could damn you with a word!” he exclaimed.

333

XV

THE moment he had spoken she grasped his arm
and held up her other hand, as if she were listening
to a sound outside the room. She had evidently had
an inspiration, and she carried it into instant effect.
She swept away to the door, flung it open, and passed
into the hall, whence her voice came back to Benyon
as she addressed a person who apparently was her
husband. She had heard him enter the house at
his habitual hour, after his long morning at business ;
the closing of the door of the vestibule had struck
her ear. The parlour was on a level with the hall,
and she greeted him without impediment. She
asked him to come in and be introduced to Captain
Benyon, and he responded with due solemnity.
She returned in advance of him, her eyes fixed upon
Benyon and lighted with defiance, her whole face
saying to him vividly, ‘‘ Here is your opportunity ;
I give it to you with my own hands. Break your
promise and betray me if you dare! You say you
can damn me with a word ; speak the word and let
us see!”

Benyon’s heart beat faster, as he felt that it was
indeed a chance; but half his emotion came from the
spectacle, magnificent in its way, of her unparalleled
impudence. A sense of all that he had escaped in
not having had to live with her rolled over him like
a wave, while he looked strangely at Mr. Roy, to

334

~

GEORGINA’S REASONS

whom this privilege had been vouchsafed. He saw
in a moment his successor had a constitution that
would carry it. Mr. Roy suggested squareness and
solidity ; he was a broad-based, comfortable, polished
man, with a surface in which the rank tendrils of

irritation would not easily obtain a foothold. He

had a broad, blank face, a capacious mouth, and a
small, light eye, to which, as he entered, he was
engaged in adjusting a double gold-rimmed glass. He
approached Benyon with a prudent, civil, punctual
air, as if he habitually met a good many gentlemen
in the course of business, and though, naturally, this
was not that sort of occasion, he was not a man to
waste time in preliminaries. Benyon had immediately
the impression of having seen him, or his equivalent,
a thousand times before. He was middle-aged, fresh-
coloured, whiskered, prosperous, indefinite. Georgina
introduced them to each other—she spoke of Benyon
as an old friend, whom she had known long before
she had known Mr. Roy, who had been very kind to
her years ago, when she was a girl.

“He isin the navy. He has just come back from
a long cruise.”

Mr. Roy shook hands—Benyon gave him his before
he knew it—said he was very happy, smiled, looked
at Benyon from head to foot, then at Georgina,
then round the room, then back at Benyon again—
at Benyon, who stood there, without sound or move-
ment, with a dilated eye and a pulse quickened to
a degree of which Mr. Roy could have little idea.
Georgina made some remark about their sitting
down, but William Roy replied that he hadn’t time
for that, if Captain Benyon would excuse him. He
should have to go straight into the library and write
a note to send back to his office, where, as he just
remembered, he had neglected to give, in leaving the
place, an important direction.

335

GEORGINA’S REASONS

‘You can wait a moment, surely,’’ Georgina said.
‘‘ Captain Benyon wants so much to see you.”’

“Oh yes, my dear; I can wait a minute, and I
can come back.”

Benyon saw, accordingly, that he was waiting, and
that Georgina was waiting too. Each was waiting
for him to say something, though they were waiting
for different things. Mr. Roy put his hands behind
him, balanced himself on his toes, hoped that Captain
Benyon had enjoyed his cruise—though he shouldn’t
care much for the navy himself—and evidently
wondered at the vacuity of his wife’s visitor. Benyon
knew he was speaking, for he indulged in two or
three more observations, after which he stopped.
But his meaning was not present to our hero. This
personage was conscious of only one thing, of his
own momentary power, of everything that hung on
his lips; all the rest swam before him; there was
vagueness in his ears and eyes. Mr. Roy stopped,
as I say, and there was a pause, which seemed to
Benyon of tremendous length. He knew, while it
lasted, that Georgina was as conscious as himself
that he felt his opportunity, that he held it there
in his hand, weighing it noiselessly in the palm, and
that she braved and scorned, or rather that she
enjoyed, the danger. He asked himself whether he
should be able to speak if he were to try, and then he
knew that he should not, that the words would stick
in his throat, that he should make sounds which would
dishonour his cause. There was no real choice nor
decision, then, on Benyon’s part ; his silence was after
all the same old silence, the fruit of other hours and
places, the stillness to which Georgina listened while
he felt her eager eyes fairly eat into his face, so that
his cheeks burned with the touch of them. The
moments stood before him in their turn; each one
was distinct. “Ah, well,” said Mr. Roy, “ perhaps

336

GEORGINA’S REASONS

[ interrupt ; I will just dash off my note.” Benyon
knew that he was rather bewildered, that he was
making a protest, that he was leaving the room ;
knew presently that Georgina again stood before him
alone.

“You are exactly the man I thought you!’ she
announced, as joyously as if she had won a bet.

“You are the most horrible woman I can imagine.
Good God, if I had to live with you!” That is
what he said to her in answer.

Even at this she never flinched ; she continued to
smile in triumph.. ‘“‘ He adores me—but what’s that
to you? Of course you have all the future,” she
went on; “ but I know you as if I had made you! ”

Benyon considered amoment. ‘If he adores you,
you are all right. If our divorce is pronounced you
will be free, and then he can marry you properly,
which he would like ever so much better.”’

“It’s too touching to hear you reason about it.
Fancy me telling such a hideous story—about myself
—me—me!’’ And she touched her breasts with her
white fingers.

Benyon gave her a look that was charged with all
the sickness of his helpless rage. ‘‘ You-—you!”’ he
repeated, as he turned away from her and passed
through the door which Mr. Roy had left open.

She followed him into the hall, she was close behind
him ; he moved before her as she pressed. ‘‘ There
was one more reason,” she said. ‘“‘I wouldn’t be
forbidden. It was my hideous pride. That’s what
prevents me now.”

“IT don’t care what it is,’’ Benyon answered,
wearily, with his hand on the knob of the door.

She laid hers on his shoulder; he stood there an
instant, feeling it, wishing that her loathsome touch
gave him the right to strike her to the earth, to strike
her so that she should never rise again.

337 Z

GEORGINA’S REASONS

“How clever you are, and intelligent always, as
you used to be; to feel so perfectly and know so
well—without more scenes—that it’s hopeless—my
ever consenting! If I have, with you, the shame
of having made you promise, let me at least have
the profit | ”’

His back had been turned to her, but at this he
glanced round. ‘ To hear you talk of shame }”

“ ‘You don’t know what I have gone through ; but,
of course, I don’t ask any pity from you. Only I
should like to say something kind to you before we
part. I admire you so much. Who will ever tell
her, if you don’t ? How will she ever know, then ?
She will be as safe as I am. You know what that
is,’ said Georgina, smiling.

He had opened the door wide while she spoke,
apparently not heeding her, thinking only of getting
away from her for ever. In reality he heard every
word she said, and felt to his marrow the lowered,
suggested tone in which she made him that last
recommendation. Outside, on the steps—she stood
there in the doorway—he gave her his last look.
“T only hope you will die. I shall pray for that !”’
And he descended into the street and took his way.

It was after this that his real temptation came.
Not the temptation to return betrayal for betrayal ;
that passed away even in a few days, for he simply
knew that he couldn’t break his promise, that it
imposed itself on him as stubbornly as the colour of
his eyes or the stammer of his lips; it had gone
forth into the world to live for itself, and was far
beyond his reach or his authority. But the tempta-
tion to go through the form of a marriage with Kate
Theory, to let her suppose that he was as free as
herself and that their children, if they should have
any, would, before the law, have a right to exist—
this attractive idea held him fast for many weeks,

338

GEORGINA’S REASONS

and caused him to pass some haggard nights and
days. It was perfectly possible she might never
learn his secret, and that, as no one could either
suspect it or have an interest in bringing it to light,
they both might live and die in security and honour.
This vision fascinated him; it was, I say, a real
temptation. He thought of other solutions — of
telling her that he was married (without telling her
to whom), and inducing her to overlook such an
accident and content herself with a ceremony in
which the world would see no flaw. But after all
the contortions of his spirit it remained as clear
to him as before that dishonour was in everything
but renunciation. So, at last, he renounced. He
took two steps which attested this act to himself.
He addressed an urgent request to the Secretary
of the Navy that he might, with as little delay as
possible, be despatched on another long voyage ; and
he returned to Boston to tell Kate Theory that they
must wait. He could explain so little that, say what
he would, he was aware that he could not make his
conduct seem natural, and he saw that the girl only
trusted him, that she never understood. She trusted
without understanding, and she agreed to wait. When
the writer of these pages last heard of the pair they
were waiting still.

339

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

341

Do you remember how, a dozen years ago, a number
of our friends were startled by the report of the
rupture of young Locksley’s engagement with Miss
Leary? This event made some noise in its day.
Both parties possessed certain claims to distinction :
Locksley in his wealth, which was believed to be
enormous, and the young lady in her beauty, which
was in truth very great. I used to hear that her
lover was fond of comparing her to the Venus of
Milo ; and, indeed, if you can imagine the mutilated
goddess with her full complement of limbs, dressed
out by Madame de Crinoline, and engaged in small-
talk beneath the drawing-room chandelier, you may
obtain a vague notion of Miss Josephine Leary.
Locksley, you remember, was rather a short man,
dark, and not particularly good-looking ; and when
he walked about with his betrothed it was half a
matter of surprise that he should have ventured to
propose to a young lady of such heroic proportions.
Miss Leary had the grey eyes and auburn hair which
I have always attributed to the famous statue. The
one defect in her face, in spite of an expression of
great candour and sweetness, was a certain lack of
animation. What it was besides her beauty that
attracted Locksley I never discovered ; perhaps, since
his attachment was so short-lived, it was her beauty
alone. I say that his attachment was of brief dura-
tion, because the break was understood to have come
from him. Both he and Miss Leary very wisely held

343

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

their tongues on the matter ; but among their friends
and enemies it of course received a hundred explana-
tions. That most popular with Locksley’s well-
wishers was, that he had backed out (these events
are discussed, you know, in fashionable circles very
much as an expected prize-fight which has miscarried
is canvassed in reunions of another kind) only on
flagrant evidence of the lady’s—what, faithlessness ?
—on overwhelming proof of the most mercenary spirit
on the part of Miss Leary. You see, our friend was
held capable of doing battle for an “idea.” It must
be owned that this was a novel charge; but, for
myself, having long known Mrs. Leary, the mother,
who was a widow with four daughters, to be an
inveterate old screw, it was not impossible for me to
believe that her first-born had also shown the cloven
foot. I suppose that the young lady’s family had,
on their own side, a very plausible version of their
disappointment. It was, however, soon made up to
them by Josephine’s marriage with a gentleman of
expectations very nearly as brilliant as those of her
old suitor. And what was /ts compensation? That
is precisely my story.

Locksley disappeared, as you will remember, from
public view. The events above alluded to happened
in March. On calling at his lodgings in April I was
told he had gone to the country. But towards the
last of May I met him. He told me that he was on
the look-out for a quiet, unfrequented place at the
seaside, where he might rusticate and sketch. He
was looking very poorly. I suggested Newport, and
I remember he hardly had the energy to smile at the
simple joke. We parted without my having been
able to satisfy him, and for a very long time I quite
lost sight of him. He died seven years ago, at the
age of thirty-five. For five years, accordingly, he
managed to shield his life from the eyes of men.

344

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

Through circumstances which I need not go into, a
good many of his personal belongings have become
mine. You will remember that he was a man of
what are called cultivated tastes; that is, he was
fond of reading, wrote a little, and painted a good
deal. He wrote some rather amateurish verse, but
he produced a number of remarkable paintings. He
left a mass of papers, on many subjects, few of which
are calculated to be generally interesting. A few of
them, however, I highly prize—that portion which
constitutes his private diary. It extends from his
twenty-fifth to his thirtieth year, at which period it
breaks off suddenly. If you will come to my house
I will show you such of his pictures and sketches as
I possess, and, I trust, convert you to my opinion
that he had in him the stuff of a charming artist.
Meanwhile I will place before you the last hundred
pages of his diary, as an answer to your inquiry
regarding the ultimate view taken by the great
Nemesis of his treatment of Miss Leary—his scorn of
the magnificent Venus Victrix. The recent passing
away of the one person who had a voice paramount
to mine in the disposal of Locksley’s effects enables
me to act without reserve.

Chowderville, June gth.—I have been sitting some
minutes, pen in hand, wondering whether on this new
earth, beneath this new sky, I had better resume this
occasional history of nothing at all. I think I will
at all events make the experiment. If we fail, as
Lady Macbeth remarks, we fail. I find my entries
have been longest when I have had least to say. I
doubt not, therefore, that, once I have had a sufficient
dose of dulness, I shall sit scribbling from morning
till night. If nothing happens—— But my pro-
phetic soul tells me that something wll happen. I
am determined that something shall—if it be nothing
else than that I paint a picture.

345

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

When I came up to bed half an hour ago I was
deadly sleepy. Now, after looking out of the window
a little, my brain is immensely refreshed, and I feel
as if I could write till morning. But, unfortunately,
I have nothing to write about. And then, if I expect
to rise early, I must turn in betimes. The whole
village is asleep, godless metropolitan that I am!
The lamps on the square, outside, flicker in the wind ;
there is nothing abroad but the blue darkness and
the smell of the rising tide. I have spent the whole
day on my legs, trudging from one side of the penin-
sula to the other. What a trump is old Mrs. Monk-
house, to have thought of this place! I must write
her a letter of passionate thanks. Never before have
I seen such a pretty little coast—never before have
I been so taken with wave and rock and cloud. I
am filled with ecstasy at the life, light, and trans-
parency of the air. J am enamoured of all the moods
and tenses of the ocean; and as yet, I suppose, I
have not seen half of them. I came in to supper
hungry, weary, footsore, sunburnt, dirty—happier, in
short, than I have been for a twelvemonth. And
now, if you please, for the prodigies of the brush !

June 11th—Another day afoot, and also afloat.
I resolved this morning to leave this abominable little
tavern ; I can’t stand my feather-bed another night.
I determined to find some other prospect than the
town-pump and the “ drug-store.’’ I questioned my
host, after breakfast, as to the possibility of getting
lodgings in any of the outlying farms and cottages.
But my host either did not or would not know any-
thing about the matter. So I resolved to wander
forth and seek my fortune—to roam inquisitive
through the neighbourhood, and appeal to the indi-
genous sentiment of hospitality. But never have I
seen a folk so devoid of this amiable quality. By
dinner time I had given up in despair. After dinner

346

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

I strolled down to the harbour, which is close at
hand. The brightness and breeziness of the water
tempted me to hire a boat and resume my explora-
tions. I procured an old tub, with a short stump of
a mast, which, being planted quite in the centre, gave
the craft much the appearance of an inverted mush-
room. I made for what I took to be, and what is,
an island, lying long and low, some four or five miles
over against the town. I sailed for half an hour
directly before the wind, and at last found myself
aground on the shelving beach of a quiet little cove.
Such a dear little cove—so bright, so still, so warm,
so remote from Chowderville, which lay in the dis-
tance, white and semicircular! I leaped ashore, and
dropped my anchor. Before me rose a steep cliff,
crowned with an old ruined fort or tower. 1 made
my way up, and round to the landward entrance.
The fort is a hollow old shell ; looking upwards, from
the beach, you see the harmless blue sky through the
gaping loopholes. Its interior is choked with rocks
and brambles and masses of fallen masonry. I
scrambled up to the parapet, and obtained a noble
sea-view. Beyond the broad bay I saw the miniature
town and country mapped out before me; and on
the other hand, I saw the infinite Atlantic—-over
which, by the by, all the pretty things are brought
from Paris. I spent the whole afternoon in wandering
hither and thither on the hills that encircle the little
cove in which I had landed, heedless of the minutes
and the miles, watching the sailing clouds and the
flitting, gleaming sails, listening to the musical attri-
tion of the tidal pebbles, passing the time anyhow.
The only particular sensation I remember was that
of being ten years old again, together with a general
impression of Saturday afternoon, of the liberty to
go in wading or even swimming, and of the prospect
of limping home in the dusk with a wondrous story

347

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

of having almost caught a turtle. When I returned
I found—but I know very well what I found, and I
need hardly repeat it here for my mortification.
Heaven knows I never was a practical character.
What thought I about the tide? There lay the old
tub, high and dry, with the rusty anchor protruding
from the flat green stones and the shallow puddles
left by the receding wave. Moving the boat an inch,
much more a dozen yards, was quite beyond my
strength. I slowly reascended the cliff, to see if
from its summit any help was discernible. None
was within sight, and I was about to go down again,
in profound dejection, when I saw a trim little sail-
boat shoot out from behind a neighbouring bluff, and
advance along the shore. J quickened pace. On
reaching the beach I found the new-comer standing
out about a hundred yards. The man at the helm
appeared to regard me with some interest. With a
mute prayer that his disposition might not be hostile
—he didn’t look like a wild islander—I invited him
by voice and gesture to make for a little point of
rocks a short distance above us, where I proceeded
to join him. I told him my story, and he readily
took me aboard. He was a civil old gentleman, of the
seafaring sort, who appeared to be cruising about in the
evening-breeze for his pleasure. On landing I visited
the proprietor of my old tub, related my misadven-
ture, and offered to pay damages if the boat shall
turn out in the morning to have sustained any.
Meanwhile, I suppose, it is held secure against the
next tidal revolution, however violent.

But for my old gentleman. I have decidedly
picked up an acquaintance, if not made a friend. I
gave him a very good cigar, and before we reached
home we had become thoroughly intimate. In ex-
change for my cigar he gave me his name ; and there
was that in his tone which seemed to imply that I

348

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

had by no means the worst of the exchange. His
name is Richard Quarterman, ‘‘ though most people,”
he added, “‘ call me Cap’n, for respect.” He then
proceeded to inquire my own titles and pretensions.
I told him no lies, but I told him only half the truth ;
and if he chooses to indulge mentally in any romantic
understatements, why, he is welcome, and bless his
simple heart! The fact is, I have simply broken with
the past. I have decided, coolly and calmly, as I
believe, that it is necessary to my success, or, at any
rate, to my happiness, to abjure for a while my
conventional self, and to assume a simple, natural
character. How can a man be simple and natural
who is known to have a large income? That is the
supreme curse. It’s bad enough to have it; to be
known to have it, to be known only because you
have it, is most damnable. I suppose I am too proud
to be successfully rich. Let me see how poverty will
serve my turn. I have taken a fresh start—I have
determined to stand upon my merits. If they fail
me I shall fall back upon my dollars, but with God’s
help I will test them, and see what kind of stuff I
am made of. To be young, strong and poor—such,
in this blessed nineteenth century, is the great basis
of solid success. I have resolved to take at least one
brief draught from the founts of inspiration of my
time. I replied to Captain Quarterman with such
reservations as a brief survey of these principles
dictated. What a luxury to pass in a poor man’s
mind for his brother! I begin to respect myself.
Thus much the Captain knows: that I am an educated
man, with a taste for painting; that I have come
hither for the purpose of studying and sketching coast-
scenery ; toning myself up with the sea air. I have
reason to believe, moreover, that he suspects me of
limited means and of being of a very frugal mind.
Amen! Vogue la galéve! But the point of my story

349

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

is in his very hospitable offer of lodgings—I had been
telling him of my want of success in the morning in
the pursuit of the same. He is a queer mixture of
the gentleman of the old school and the hot-headed
merchant-captain.

‘“‘ Young man,” said he, after taking several medi-
tative puffs of his cigar, ‘‘I don’t see the point of
your living in a tavern when there are folks about
you with more house-room than they know what to
do with. A tavern is only half a house, just as one
of these new-fashioned screw-propellers is only half a
ship. Suppose you walk round and take a look at
my place. I own quite a respectable tenement over
yonder to the left of the town. Do you see that old
wharf with the tumble-down warehouses, and the long
row of elms behind it? I live nght in the midst of
the elms. We have the sweetest little garden in the
world, stretching down to the water’s edge. It’s all
as quiet as anything can be, short of a churchyard.
The back windows, you know, overlook the harbour ;
and you can see twenty miles up the bay, and fifty
miles out to sea. You can paint to yourself there the
livelong day, with no more fear of intrusion than if
you were out yonder at the light-ship. There’s no
one but myself and my daughter, who's a perfect
lady, sir. She teaches music in a young ladies’
school. You see, money’s an object, as they say.
We have never taken boarders yet, because none
ever came in our track ; but I guess we can learn the
ways. I suppose you’ve boarded before; you can
put us up to a thing or two.”

There was something so kindly and honest in the
old man’s weather-beaten face, something so friendly
in his address, that I forthwith struck a bargain with
him, subject to his daughter’s approval. I am to
have her answer to-morrow. This same daughter
strikes me as rather a dark spot in the picture.

350

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

Teacher in a young ladies’ school—probably the estab-
lishment of which Mrs. Monkhouse spoke to me. I
suppose she’s over thirty. I think I know the species.

June 12th, AM.—I have really nothing to do but
to scribble. ‘‘ Barkis is willing.”” Captain Quarter-
man brought me word this morning that his daughter
makes no objection. I am to report this evening ;
but I shall send my slender baggage in an hour or two.

P.M.—Here I am, domiciled, almost domesticated.
The house is less than a mile from the inn, and
reached by a very pleasant road, which skirts the
harbour. At about’six o’clock I presented myself ;
Captain Quarterman had described the place. <A very
civil old negress admitted me, and ushered me into
the garden, where I found my friends watering their
flowers. The old man was in his house-coat and
slippers—he gave me a cordial welcome. There is
something delightfully easy in his manners — and
in Miss Quarterman’s, too, for that matter. She
recelved me very nicely. The late Mrs. Quarterman
was probably a superior being. As for the young
lady’s being thirty, she is about twenty-four. She
wore a fresh white dress, with a blue ribbon on her
neck, and a rosebud in her button-hole—or whatever
corresponds to the button-hole on the feminine bosom.
I thought I discerned in this costume a vague inten-
tion of courtesy, of gaiety, of celebrating my arrival.
I don’t believe Miss Quarterman wears white muslin
every day. She shook hands with me, and made me
a pleasing little speech about their taking me in.
‘We have never had any inmates before,” said she ;
“and we are consequently new to the business. I
don’t know what you expect. I hope you don't
expect a great deal. You must ask for anything you
want. If we can give it, we shall be very glad to do
so; if we can’t, I give you warning that we shall
simply tell you so.’ Brava, Miss Quarterman! The

351

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

best of it is, that she ‘is decidedly beautiful—and in
the grand manner; tall, and with roundness in her
lines. What is the orthodox description of a pretty
girl ?—white and red? Miss Quarterman is not a
pretty girl, she is a handsome woman. She leaves an
impression of black and red ; that is, she is a brunette
with colour. She has a great deal of wavy black hair,
which encircles her head like a dusky glory, a smoky
halo. Her eyebrows, too, are black, but her eyes
themselves are of a rich blue grey, the colour of those
slate-cliffs which I saw yesterday, weltering under
the tide. She has perfect teeth, and her smile is
almost unnaturally brilliant. Her chin is surpassingly
round. She has a capital movement, too, and looked
uncommonly well as she strolled in the garden-path
with a big spray of geranium lifted to her nose. She
has very little to say, apparently; but when she
speaks, it is to the point, and if the point suggests
it, she doesn’t hesitate to laugh very musically.
Indeed, if she is not talkative, it is not from timidity.
Is it from indifference ? Time will elucidate this, as
well as other mysteries. I cling to the hypothesis
that she is amiable. She is, moreover, intelligent ;
she is probably fond of keeping herself ¢o herself, as
the phrase is, and is even, possibly, very proud. She
is, in short, a woman of character. There you are,
Miss Quarterman, at as full length as I can paint you.
After tea she gave us some music inthe parlour. I
confess that I was more taken with the picture of
the dusky little room, lighted by the single candle on
the piano, and by her stately way of sitting at the
instrument, than by the quality of her playing,
though that is evidently high.

june 18th.—I have now been here almost a week.
I occupy two very pleasant rooms. My painting-
room is a large and rather bare apartment, with a
very good north-light. I have decked it out with a

352

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

few old prints and sketches, and have already grown
very fond of it. When I had disposed my artistic
odds and ends so as to make it look as much like a
studio as possible, I called in my hosts. The Captain
snuffed about, silently, for some moments, and then
inquired hopefully if I had ever tried my hand at a
ship. On learning that I had not yet got to ships,
he relapsed into a prudent reserve. His daughter
smiled and questioned, very graciously, and called
everything beautiful and delightful ; which rather dis-
appointed me, as I had taken her to be a woman of
some originality. She is rather a puzzle. Or is she,
indeed, a very commonplace person, and the fault in
me, who am for ever taking women to mean a great
deal more than their Maker intended? Regarding
Miss Quarterman I have collected a few facts. She
is not twenty-four, but twenty-seven years old. She
has taught music ever since she was twenty, in a
large boarding-school just out of the town, where she
originally obtained her education. Her salary in this
establishment, which is, I believe, a tolerably flourish-
ing one, and the proceeds of a few additional lessons,
constitute the chief revenues of the household. But
the Captain fortunately owns his house, and his
needs and habits are of the simplest kind. What
does he or his daughter know of the great worldly
theory of necessities, the great worldly scale of
pleasures? The young lady’s only luxuries are a
subscription to the circulating library, and an occa-
sional walk on the beach, which, like one of. Miss
Bronté’s heroines, she paces in company with an old
Newfoundland dog. Iam afraid she is sadly ignorant.
She reads nothing but novels. I am bound to believe,
however, that she has derived from the perusal of
these works a certain second-hand acquaintance with
life. ‘“‘I read all the novels I can get,” she said
yesterday ; ‘“‘ but I only like the good ones. I do so

353 ZA

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

like The Missing Bride, which I have just finished.’
I must set her to work at some of the masters. I
should like some of those fretful daughters of gold,
in New York, to see how this woman lives. I wish,
too, that half-a-dozen of ces messieurs of the clubs
might take a peep at the present way of life of their
humble servant. We breakfast at eight o’clock. Im-
mediately afterwards Miss Quarterman, in a shabby
old bonnet and shawl, starts off to school. If the
weather is fine the Captain goes a-fishing, and I am
left quite to my own devices. Twice I have accom-
panied the old man. The second time I was lucky
enough to catch a big blue-fish, which we had for
dinner. The Captain is an excellent specimen of the
pure navigator, with his loose blue clothes, his ultra-
divergent legs, his crisp white hair, his jolly thick-
skinned visage. He comes of a seafaring English
race. There is more or less of the ship’s cabin in the
general aspect of this antiquated house. I have heard
the winds whistle about its walls, on two or three
occasions, in true mid-ocean style. And then the
illusion is heightened, somehow or other, by the
extraordinary intensity of the light. My painting-
room is a grand observatory of the clouds. I sit
by the half-hour watching them sail past my high
uncurtained windows. At the back part of the room
something tells you that they belong to an ocean-sky ;
and there, in truth, as you draw nearer, you behold
the vast grey complement of sea. This quarter of
the town is perfectly quiet. Human activity seems
to have passed over it, never again to return, and to
have left a deposit of melancholy resignation. The
streets are clean, bright and airy ; but this fact only
deepens the impression of vanished uses. It seems
to say that the protecting heavens look down on their
decline and can’t help them. There is something
ghostly in the perpetual stillness. We frequently

354

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

hear the rattling of the yards and the issuing of
orders on the barques and schooners anchored out in
the harbour.

June 28th.—My experiment works far better than
Ihad hoped. Iam thoroughly at my ease ; my peace
of mind quite passeth understanding. I work dili-
gently ; I have none but pleasant thoughts. The
past has almost lost its bitterness. For a week, now,
I have been out sketching daily. The Captain carries
me to a certain point on the shore of the bay, I
disembark and strike across the uplands to a spot
where I have taken a kind of tryst with a particular
effect of rock and shadow, which has been tolerably
faithful to its appointment. Here I set up my easel,
and paint till sunset. Then I retrace my steps and
meet the boat. Jam in every way much encouraged ;
the horizon of my work grows perceptibly wider.
And then I am inexpressibly happy in the conviction
that I am not wholly unfit for a life of (moderate)
industry and (comparative) privation. I am quite
in love with my poverty, if I may call it so. And
why should I not? At this rate I don’t spend eight
hundred a year.

July 12th—We have been having a week of bad
weather: constant rain, night and day. This is
certainly at once the brightest and the blackest spot
in New England. The skies can smile, assuredly, but
they have also lachrymal moods. I have been paint-
ing rather languidly, and at a great disadvantage, at
my window. . . . Through all this pouring and patter-
ing Miss Miriam—her name is Miriam, and it exactly
fits her—sallies forth to her pupils. She envelops her
beautiful head in a great woollen hood, her beautiful
figure in a kind of feminine mackintosh ; her feet she
puts into heavy clogs, and over the whole she balances
a cotton umbrella. When she comes home, with the
rain-drops glistening on her rich cheeks and her dark

355

A LANDSCAPE- PAINTER

lashes, her cloak bespattered with mud and her hands
red with the cool damp, she is a very honourable
figure. I never fail to make her a very low bow, for
which she repays me with a familiar, but not a vulgar,
nod. The working-day side of her character is what
especially pleases me in Miss Quarterman. This holy
working-dress sits upon her with the fine effect of an
antique drapery. Little use has she for whalebones
and furbelows. What a poetry there is, after all, in
red hands! I kiss yours, Mademoiselle. I do so
because you are self-helpful ; because you earn your
living ; because you are honest, simple, and ignorant
(for a sensible woman, that is); because you speak
and act to the point; because, in short, you are so
unlike—certain of your sisters.

July 16th.—On Monday it cleared up generously.
When I went to my window, on rising, I found sky
and sea looking, for their brightness and freshness,
like a clever English water-colour. The ocean is of
a deep purple blue; above it, the pure, bright sky
looks pale, though it hangs over the inland horizon
a canopy of denser tissue. Here and there on the
dark, breezy water gleams the white cap of a wave,
or flaps the white cloak of a fishing-boat. I have
been sketching sedulously ; I have discovered, within
a couple of miles’ walk, a large, lonely pond, set in
a really grand landscape of barren rocks and grassy
slopes. At one extremity is a broad outlook on the
open sea; at the other, buried in the foliage of an
apple-orchard, stands an old haunted-looking farm-
house. To the west of the pond is a wide expanse
of rock and grass, of sand and marsh. The sheep
browse over it—poorly—as they might upon a High-
land moor. Except a few stunted firs and cedars,
there is not a tree in sight. When I want shade I
have to look for it in the shelter of one of the large
stones which hold up to the sun a shoulder coated

356

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

with delicate grey, figured over with fine, pale, sea-
green moss, or else in one of the long, shallow dells
where a tangle of blackberry-bushes hedges about
a pool that reflects the sky. I am giving my best
attention to a plain brown hillside, and trying to
make it look like something in nature; and as we
have now had the same clear sky for several days, I
have almost finished quite a satisfactory little study.
I go forth immediately after breakfast. Miss Quarter-
man supplies me with a little parcel of bread and cold
meat, which at the noonday hour, in my sunny
solitude, within sight of the slumbering ocean, I
voraciously convey to my lips with my discoloured
fingers. At seven o'clock I return to tea, at which
repast we each tell the story of our day’s work.
For poor Miss Quarterman it is always the same
story : a wearisome round of visits to the school, and
to the houses of the mayor, the parson, the butcher,
the baker, whose young ladies, of course, all receive
instruction on the piano. But she doesn’t complain,
nor, indeed, does she look very weary. When she
has put on a fresh light dress for tea, and arranged
her hair anew, and with these improvements flits
about with the quiet hither and thither of her gentle
footstep, preparing our evening meal, peeping into
the teapot, cutting the solid loaf—or when, sitting
down on the low door-step, she reads out select scraps
from the evening paper—or else when, tea being over,
she folds her arms (an attitude which becomes her
mightily) and, still sitting on the door-step, gossips
away the evening in comfortable idleness, while her
father and I indulge in the fragrant pipe and watch
the lights shining out, one by one, in different quarters
of the darkening bay: at these moments she is as
pretty, as cheerful, as careless as it becomes a sensible
woman to be. What a pride the Captain takes in his
daughter, and she, in return, how perfect is her devo-

357

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

tion to the old man! He is proud of her grace, of
her tact, of her good sense, of her wit, such as it is.
He believes her to be the most accomplished of
women. He waits upon her as if, instead of his old
familiar Miriam, she were some new arrival—say a
daughter-in-law lately brought home. And @ propos
of daughters-in-law, if I were his own son he could
not be kinder to me. They are certainly—nay, why
should I not say it ?—we are certainly a very happy
little household. Will it last for ever? I say we,
because both father and daughter have given me a
hundred assurances—he direct, and she, if I don’t
flatter myself, after the manner of her sex, indirect
—that I am already a valued friend. It is natural
enough that they should like me, because I have tried
to please them. The way to the old man’s heart is
through a studied consideration of his daughter. He
knows, I imagine, that I admire Miss Quarterman,
but if I should at any time fall below the mark of
ceremony, I should have an account to settle with him.
All this is as it should be. When people have to
economise with the dollars and cents, they have a
right to be splendid in their feelings. I have done
my best to be nice to the stately Miriam without
making love to her. That I haven’t done chat, how-
ever, is a fact which I do not, in any degree, set
down here to my credit ; for I would defy the most
impertinent of men (whoever he is) to forget himself
with this young lady. Those animated eyes have a
power to keep people in their place. I mention the
circumstance simply because in future years, when
my charming friend shall have become a distant
shadow, it will be pleasant, in turning over these
pages, to find written testimony to a number of
points which I shall be apt to charge solely upon my
imagination. I wonder whether Miss Quarterman, in
days to come, referring to the tables of her memory

358

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

for some trivial matter of fact, some prosaic date or
half-buried landmark, will also encounter this little
secret of ours, as I may call it—will decipher an old
faint note to this effect, overlaid with the memoranda
of intervening years. Of course she will. Sentiment
aside, she is a woman of a retentive faculty. Whether
she forgives or not I know not; but she certainly
doesn’t forget. Doubtless, virtue is its own reward ;
but there is a double satisfaction in being polite to a
person on whom it tells !

Another reason for my pleasant relations with the
Captain is, that I afford him a chance to rub up his
rusty worldly lore and trot out his little scraps of
old-fashioned reading, some of which are very curious.
It is a great treat for him to spin his threadbare
yarns over again to a submissive listener. These
warm July evenings, in the sweet-smelling garden,
are just the proper setting for his traveller’s tales.
An odd enough understanding subsists between us
on this point. Like many gentlemen of his calling,
the Captain is harassed by an irresistible desire to
romance, even on the least promising themes ; and it
is vastly amusing to observe how he will auscultate,
as it were, his auditor’s inmost mood, to ascertain
whether it is in condition to be practised upon.
Sometimes his artless fables don’t “take” at all:
they are very pretty, I conceive, in the deep and
briny well of the Captain’s fancy, but they won’t
bear being transplanted into the dry climate of my
land-bred mind. At other times, the auditor being
in a dreamy, sentimental, and altogether unprincipled
mood, he will drink the old man’s salt water by the
bucketful and feel none the worse for it. Which is
the worse, wilfully to tell, or wilfully to believe, a
pretty little falsehood which will not hurt any one ?
I suppose you can’t believe wilfully ; you only pre-
tend to believe. My part of the game, therefore, is

359

A LANDSCAPE~PAINTER

certainly as bad as the Captain’s. Perhaps I take
kindly to his beautiful perversions of fact because
I am myself engaged in one, because I am sailing
under false colours of the deepest dye. I wonder
whether my friends have any suspicion of the real
state of the case. How should they? I take for
granted that I play my little part pretty well. I am
delighted to find it comes so easy. I do not mean
that I find little difficulty in foregoing my old luxuries
and pleasures—for to these, thank heaven, I was not
so indissolubly wedded that one wholesome shock
could not loosen my bonds—but that I manage more
cleverly than I expected to stifle those innumerable
tacit allusions which might serve effectually to belie
my character.

Sunday, July 20th.—This has been a very pleasant
day for me; although in it, of course, I have done
no manner of work. *I had this morning a delightful
téte-a-téte with my hostess. She had sprained her
ankle coming down stairs, and so, instead of going
forth to Sunday-school and to meeting, she was
obliged to remain at home on the sofa. The Captain,
who is of a very punctilious piety, went off alone.
When I came into the parlour, as the church-bells
were ringing, Miss Quarterman asked me if I never
went to a place of worship.

‘“‘ Never when there is anything better to do at
home,”’ said I.

“What is better than going to church?” she
asked, with charming simplicity.

She was reclining on the sofa, with her foot on a
pillow and her Bible in her lap. She looked by no
means afflicted at having to be absent from divine
service ; and, instead of answering her question, I
took the liberty of telling her so.

“* I am sorry to be absent,” said she. ‘‘ You know
it’s my only festival in the week.”

360

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

“‘ So you look upon it as a festival.”

“Isn't 1t a pleasure to meet one’s acquaintance ?
I confess I am never deeply interested in the sermon,
and I very much dislike teaching the children ; but I
like wearing my best bonnet, and singing in the choir,
and walking part of the way home with——’”’

“ With whom ? ”

“With any one who offers to walk with me.”

“ With Mr. Prendergast, for instance,”’ said I.

Mr. Prendergast is a young lawyer in the village,
who calls here once a week, and whose attentions to
Miss Quarterman have been remarked.

“Yes,” she answered, “‘ Mr. Prendergast will do
as an instance.”

“* How he will miss you ! ”

‘““T suppose he will. We sing off the same book.
What are you laughing at? He kindly permits me
to hold the book, while he stands with his hands
in his pockets. Last Sunday I quite lost patience.
‘Mr. Prendergast,’ said I, ‘ do hold the book! Where
are your manners?’ He burst out laughing in the
midst of the reading. He will certainly have to hold
the book to-day.”

‘“‘ What a masterful soul he is! I suppose he will
call after meeting.”’

“‘ Perhaps he will. I hope so.”

“T hope he won't,” said I, frankly. “ I am going
to sit down here and talk to you, and I wish our
conversation not to be interrupted.”

“‘ Have you anything particular to say ? ”’

“Nothingso particular as Mr. Prendergast, perhaps.”

Miss Quarterman has a very pretty affectation of
being more matter-of-fact than she really is.

“* His rights, then,’”’ she remarked, ‘‘ are paramount
to yours.”

“* Ah, you admit that he has rights ? ”

‘“‘ Not at all. I simply assert that you have none.”’

361

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

“TI beg your pardon. I have claims which I mean
to enforce. I have a claim upon your undivided
attention when I pay you a morning call.”

‘You have had all the attention I am capable of.
Have I been so very rude P ”’

‘Not so very rude, perhaps, but rather incon-
siderate. You have been sighing for the company of
a third person, whom you can’t expect me to care
much about.”

‘‘ Why not, pray? If I, a lady, can put up with
Mr. Prendergast’s society, why shouldn’t you, one of
his own sex ? ”

‘‘ Because he is so outrageously conceited. You,
as a lady, or at any rate as a woman, like conceited
men.”

“Ah, yes; I have no doubt that I, as a woman,
have all kinds of weak tastes. That’s a very old
story.”

‘Admit, at any rate, that our friend is con-
ceited.”’

““ Admit it! Why, I have said so a hundred times.
I have told him so.”’

‘* Indeed, it has come to that, then ? ”’

“To what, pray ? ”

‘To that critical point in the friendship of a lady
and gentleman when they bring against each other
all kinds of delightful accusations and rebukes. Take
care, Miss Quarterman! A couple of intelligent New-
Englanders, of opposite sexes, young, unmarried, are
pretty far gone, when they begin to scan each other’s
faults. So you told Mr. Prendergast that he is con-
ceited ? And I suppose you added that he was also
dreadfully satirical and sceptical? What was his
rejoinder? Let me see. Did he ever tell you that
you were a wee bit affected ? ”

“No; he left that for you to say, in this very
ingenious manner. Thank you, sir.”

362

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

‘He left it for me to deny, which is a great deal
prettier. Do you think the manner ingenious ? ”’

‘“‘T think the matter, considering the day and
hour, very profane, Mr. Locksley. Suppose you go
away and let me peruse my Bible.”’

“ Meanwhile what shall I do ? ”’

“Go and read yours, if you have one.”

‘‘ My Bible,” I said, “‘ is the female mind.”

I was nevertheless compelled to retire, with the
promise of a second audience in half an hour. Poor
Miss Quarterman owes it to her conscience to read
a certain number of chapters. In what a terrible
tradition she has been reared, and what an edifying
spectacle is the piety of women! Women find a
place for everything in their commodious little minds,
just as they do in their wonderfully subdivided trunks
when they go on a journey. I have no doubt that
this young lady stows away her religion in a corner,
just as she does her Sunday-bonnet—and, when the
proper moment comes, draws it forth, and reflects,
while she puts it on before the glass and blows away
the strictly imaginary dust (for what worldly impurity
can penetrate through half-a-dozen layers of cambric
and tissue-paper ?): ‘‘ Dear me, what a comfort it is
to have a nice, fresh holiday-creed ! ’’—When I re-
turned to the parlour Miriam was still sitting with
her Bible in her lap. Somehow or other I no longer
felt in the mood for jesting ; so I asked her, without
chaffing, what she had been reading, and she answered
me in the same tone. She inquired how I had spent
my half-hour.

“In thinking good Sabbath thoughts,” I said.
““T have been walking in the garden.” And then
I spoke my mind. ‘I have been thanking heaven
that it has led me, a poor friendless wanderer, into
so peaceful an anchorage.”

“ Are you so very poor. and friendless ? ”’

363

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

“Did you ever hear of an art-student who was
not poor? Upon my word, I have yet to sell my
first picture. Then, as for being friendless, there are
not five people in the world who really care for me.”

“‘ Really care? I am afraid you look too close.
And then I think five good friends is a very large
number. I think myself very well off with half a
one. But if you are friendless, it’s probably your
own fault.”’

“ Perhaps it is,” said I, sitting down in the rocking-
chair; ‘‘ and also, perhaps it isn’t. Have you found
me so very difficult to live with? Haven't you, on
the contrary, found me rather sociable ? ”’

She folded her arms, and quietly looked at me for
a moment, before answering. I shouldn’t wonder if
I blushed a little.

‘You want a lump of sugar, Mr. Locksley ; that’s
the long and short of it. I haven’t given you one
since you have been here. How you must have
suffered! But it’s a pity you couldn’t have waited
a while longer, instead of beginning to put out your
paws and bark. For an artist, you are very slap-
dash. Men never know how to wait. ‘ Have I found
you very difficult to live with ? haven’t I found you
sociable ?’ Perhaps, after all, considering what I
have in my mind, it is as well that you asked for
your lump of sugar. Ihave found you very indulgent.
You let us off easily, but you wouldn’t like us a bit
if you didn’t pity us. Don’t I go deep? Sociable ?
ah, well, no—decidedly not! You are entirely too
particular. You are considerate of me, because you
know that I know that you are so. There’s the rub,
you see: I know that you know that I know it!
Don’t interrupt me; I am going to be striking. I
want you to understand why I don’t consider you
sociable. You call poor Mr. Prendergast conceited ;
but, really, I believe he has more humility than you.

364

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

He envies my father and me—thinks us so cultivated.
You don’t envy any one, and yet I don’t think you’re
a saint. You treat us kindly because you think
virtue in a lowly station ought to be encouraged.
Would you take the same amount of pains for a
person you thought your equal, a person equally
averse with yourself to being under an obligation ?
There are differences. Of course it’s very delightful
to fascinate people. Who wouldn't? There is no
harm in it, as long as the fascinator doesn’t set up
for a public benefactor. If I were a man, a clever man
like yourself, who had seen the world, who was not
to be dazzled and encouraged, but to be listened to,
counted with, would you be equally amiable? It will
perhaps seem absurd to you, and it will certainly
seem egotistical, but I consider myself sociable, for
all that I have only a couple of friends—my father
and Miss Blankenberg. That is, I mingle with people
without any arriére-pensée. Of course the people I
see are mainly women. Not that I wish you to do
so: on the contrary, if the contrary is agreeable to
you. But I don’t believe you mingle in the same
way with men. You may ask me what I know about
it! Of course I know nothing; I simply guess.
When I have done, indeed, I mean to beg your
pardon for all I have said ; but until then, give me
a chance. You are incapable of exposing yourself to
be bored, whereas I take it as my waterproof takes
the rain. You have no idea what heroism I show in
the exercise of my profession! Every day I have
occasion to pocket my pride and to stifle my sense
of the ridiculous— of which of course you think I
haven't a bit. It is for instance a constant vexation
to me to be poor. It makes me frequently hate rich
women; it makes me despise poor ones. I don’t
know whether you suffer acutely from the smallness
of your own means; but if you do, I daresay you

365

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

shun rich men. I don’t, I like to bleed ; to go into
rich people’s houses, and to be very polite to the
ladies, especially if they are very much dressed, very
ignorant and vulgar. All women are like me in this
respect, and all men more or less like you. That 1s,
after all, the text of my sermon. Compared with us
it has always seemed to me that you are arrant
cowards—that we alone are brave. To be sociable
you must have a great deal of patience. You are too
fine a gentleman. Go and teach school, or open a
comer-grocery, or sit in a law-office all day, waiting
for clients: then you will be sociable. As yet you
are only selfish. It +s your own fault if people don’t
care for you; you don’t care for them. That you
should be indifferent to their good opinion is all very
well ; but you don’t care for their indifference. You
are amiable, you are very kind, and you are also very
lazy. You consider that you are working now, don’t
you? Many persons would not call it work.”

It was now certainly my turn to fold my arms.

“And now,” added my companion, as I did so,
“be so good as to excuse me.”

“This was certainly worth waiting for,” said I.
“YT don’t know what answer to make. My head
swims. Sugar, did you say? I don’t know whether
you have been giving me sugar or vitriol. So you
advise me to open a corner-grocery, do you ? ”’

“T advise you to do something that will make
you a little less satirical.’ You had better marry, for
instance.”

“* Je ne demande pas mieux. Will you have me?
I can’t afford it.”

“* Marry a rich woman.”’

I shook my head.

“Why not ? ” asked Miss Quarterman. “ Because
people would accuse you of being mercenary ? What
of that? I mean to marry the first rich man who

366

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

offers. Do you know that I am tired of living alone
in this weary old way, teaching little girls their scales,
and turning and patching my dresses? I mean to
marry the first man who offers.”’

“ Even if he is poor ? ”

“ Even if he is poor and has a hump.”’

“IT am your man, then. Would you take me if I
were to offer ? ”

“Try and see.” —-

“Must I get upon my knees ? ”’

“No, you needn’t even do that. Am I not on
mine? It would be too fine an irony. Remain as
you are, lounging back in your chair, with your thumbs
in your waistcoat.”

If I were writing a romance now, instead of tran-
scribing facts, I would say that I knew not what
might have happened at this juncture had not the
door opened and admitted the Captain and Mr.
Prendergast. The latter was in the highest spirits.

“How are you, Miss Miriam? So you have been
breaking your leg, eh ? How are you, Mr. Locksley ?
I wish I were a doctor now. Which is it, right or left ? ”’

In this simple fashion he made himself agreeable
to Miss Miriam. He stopped to dinner and talked
without ceasing. Whether our hostess had talked
herself out in her very animated address to myself
an hour before, or whether she preferred to oppose
no obstacle to Mr. Prendergast’s fluency, or whether
she was indifferent to him, I know not; but she
held her tongue with that easy grace, that charming
tacit intimation of “‘ We could if we would,” of which
she is so perfect a mistress. This very interesting
woman has a number of pretty traits in common
with her town-bred sisters ; only, whereas in these
they are laboriously acquired, in her they are richly
natural. I am sure that, if I were to plant her in
Madison Square to-morrow, she would, after one quick,

367

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

all-compassing glance, assume the ntl admivart in a
manner to drive the finest lady of them all to despair.
Prendergast is a man of excellent intentions but no
taste. Two or three times I looked at Miss Quarter-
man to see what impression his sallies were making
upon her. They seemed to produce none whatever.
But I know better, mot. Not one of them escaped
her. But I suppose she said to herself that her
impressions on this point were no business of mine.
Perhaps she was right. It is a disagreeable word to
use of a woman you admire ; but I can’t help fancying
that she has been a little soured. By what? Who
shall say ? By some old love-affair, perhaps.

July 24th—This evening the Captain and I took
a half-hour’s turn about the port. I asked him
frankly, as a friend, whether Prendergast wants to
marry his daughter.

“‘T guess he does,” said the old man, “ and yet I
hope he don’t. You know what he is: he’s smart,
promising, and already sufficiently well off. But
somehow he isn’t for a man what my Miriam is for a
female.”’

“ That he isn’t!’ said I; “‘ and honestly, Captain
Quarterman, I don’t know who is——”

“ Unless it be yourself,’’ said the Captain.

“Thank you. I know a great many ways in which
Mr. Prendergast is more worthy of her than I.”’

“‘ And I know one in which you are more worthy
of her than he—that is in being what we used to call
one of the old sort.”

“‘ Miss Quarterman made him sufficiently welcome
in her quiet way on Sunday,” I rejoined.

“Oh, she respects him,” said Quarterman. ‘“ As
she’s situated, she might marry him on that. You
see, she’s weary of hearing little girls drum on the
piano. With her ear for music,” added the Captain,
“I wonder she has borne it so long.”

368

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

“ She is certainly meant for better things,” said I.

“‘ Well,”’ answered the Captain, who has an honest
habit of deprecating your agreement when it occurs
to him that he has obtained it for sentiments which
fall somewhat short of stoical—‘“ well,’’ said he, with
a very dry, edifying expression, ‘‘ she’s born to do her
duty. We are all of us born for that.”

“‘ Sometimes our duty is rather dismal,’ said I.

‘““So be it; but what’s the help for it? I don’t
want to die without seeing my daughter provided for.
What she makes by teaching is a pretty slim sub-
sistence. There was a time when I thought she was
going to be fixed for life, but it all blew over. There
was a young fellow here, from down Boston way, who
came about as near to it as you can come when you
actually don’t. Heand Miriam were excellent friends.
One day Miriam came up to me, and looked me in
the face, and told me she had passed her word.

“‘* Who to ? ’ says I, though of course I knew, and
Miriam told me as much. ‘ When do you expect to
marry ?’ I asked.

“* When Alfred ’—his name was Alfred—‘ grows
rich enough,’ says she.

*“* When will that be ? ’

““* Tt may not be for years,’ said poor Miriam.

‘“‘A whole year passed, and, so far as I could see,
the young man hadn’t accumulated very much. He
was for ever running to and fro between this place
and Boston. I asked no questions, because I knew
that my poor girl wished it so. But at last, one day,
I began to think it was time to take an observation,
and see whereabouts we stood.

“*Has Alfred made his little pile yet?’ I
asked.

‘** T don’t know, father,’ said Miriam.

“«* When are you to be married ? ’

“‘ * Never !’ said my poor little girl, and burst into

369 28

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

tears. ‘ Please ask me no questions,’ said she. ‘Our
engagement is over. Ask me no questions.’

“““ Tell me one thing,’ said I: ‘where is that
d———d scoundrel who has broken my daughter's
heart ?’

“‘’You should have seen the look she gave me.

“* Broken my heart, sir? You are very much
mistaken. I don’t know who you mean.’

. ‘*T mean Alfred Bannister,’ said I. That was
his name.

‘* * T believe Mr. Bannister is in China,’ says Miriam,
as grand as the Queen of Sheba. And there was an
end of it. I never learnt the ins and outs of it. I
have been told that Bannister is amassing considerable
wealth in the China-trade.”’

August 7th.—I have made no entry for more than
a fortnight. They tell me I have been very ill; and
I find no difficulty in believing them. I suppose I
took cold, sitting out so late, sketching. At all events,
I have had a mild intermittent fever. I have slept so
much, however, that the time has seemed rather short.
Fhave been tenderly nursed by this kind old mariner,
his daughter, and his black domestic. God bless them,
one and all! Isay his daughter, because old Cynthia
informs me that for half an hour one morning, at
dawn, after a night during which I had been very
feeble, Miss Quarterman relieved guard at my bed-
side, while I lay sleeping like a log. It is very jolly
to see sky and ocean once again. I have got myself
into my easy-chair, by the best window, with my
shutters closed and the lattice open; and here I sit
with my book on my knee, scratching away feebly
enough. Now and then I peep from my cool, dark
sick-chamber out into the world of light. High noon
at midsummer—what a spectacle! There are no
clouds in the sky, no waves on the ocean, the sun
has it all to himself. To look long at the garden

370

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

makes the eyes water. And we—‘ Hobbs, Nobbs,
Stokes and Nokes ’’—propose to paint that lumin-
osity. Allons donc !

The handsomest of women has just tapped, and
come in with a plate of early peaches. The peaches
are of a gorgeous colour and plumpness; but Miss
Quarterman looks pale and thin. The hot weather
doesn’t agree with her, and besides she is over-worked.
Damn her drudgery! Ofcourse I thanked her warmly
for her attentions during my illness. She disclaims
all gratitude, and refers me to her father and the
dusky Cynthia.

“‘T allude more especially,” I said, “‘ to that little
hour at the end of a weary night when you stole in,
like a kind of moral Aurora, and drove away the
shadows from my brain. That morning, you know,
I began to get better.”’

‘““It was indeed a very little hour,” said Miss
Quarterman, colouring. ‘ It was about ten minutes.”
And then she began to scold me for presuming to
touch a pen during my convalescence. She laughs at
me, indeed, for keeping a diary at all. ‘“‘ Ofall things,
a sentimental man is the most despicable!’ she
exclaimed.

I confess I was somewhat nettled—the thrust
seemed gratuitous.

“ Of all things a woman without sentiment is the
most wanting in sweetness.”’

“‘ Sentiment and sweetness are all very well when
you have time for them,” said Miss Quarterman. “I
haven't. Iam not rich enough. Good morning!”

Speaking of another woman, I would say that she
flounced out of the room. But such was the gait of
Juno when she moved stiffly over the grass from
where Paris stood with Venus holding the apple,
gathering up her divine vestment and leaving the
- others to guess at her face.

37t

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

_ Juno has just come back to say that she forgot
what she came for half an hour ago. What will I be
pleased to like for dinner ?

“IT have just been writing in my diary that you
flounced out of the room,”’ said [.

‘““ Have you, indeed? Now you can write that I
have bounced in. There’s a nice cold chicken down-
stairs,” etc. etc.

August 14th.—This afternoon I sent for a light
vehicle, and treated Miss Quarterman to a drive. We
went successively over the three beaches. What a
spin we had coming home! I shall never forget that
breezy trot over Weston’s Beach. The tide was very
low, and we had the whole glittering, weltering strand
to ourselves. There was a heavy blow last night,
which has not yet subsided, and the waves have been
lashed into a magnificent fury. Trot, trot, trot, trot,
we trundled over the hard sand. The sound of the
horse’s hoofs rang out sharp against the monotone of
the thunderous surf, as we drew nearer and nearer
to the long line of the cliffs. At our left, almost
from the zenith of the pale evening sky to the high
western horizon of the tumultuous dark-green sea,
was suspended, so to speak, one of those gorgeous
vertical sunsets that Turner sometimes painted. It
was a splendid confusion of purple and green and
gold—the clouds flying and floating in the wind like
the folds of a mighty banner borne by some triumphal
fleet which had rounded the curve of the globe. As
we reached the point where the cliffs begin I pulled
up, and we remained for some time looking at their
long, diminishing, crooked perspective, blue and dun
rs it receded, with the white surge playing at their

eet.

August 17th.—This evening, as I lighted my bed-
room-candle, I saw that the Captain had something
to say to me. So I waited below until my host aad

372

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

his daughter had performed their usual osculation,
and the latter had given me that confiding hand-
shake which I never fail to exact.

‘“‘ Prendergast has got his discharge,’’ said the old
man, when he had heard his daughter’s door close.

“What do you mean ? ”

He pointed with his thumb to the room above,
where we heard, through the thin partition, the move-
ment of Miss Quarterman’s light step.

‘“‘ You mean that he has proposed to Miss Miriam ? ”’

The Captain nodded.

“‘ And has been refused ? ”

“ Flat.”

“‘ Poor fellow !’’ said I, very honestly. ‘‘ Did he
tell you himself ? ”’

“Yes, with tears in his eyes. He wanted me to
speak for him. I told him it was no use. Then he
began to say hard things of my poor girl.”

‘“‘ What kind of things ? ”’

‘“‘ A pack of falsehoods. He says she has no heart.
She has promised always to regard him as a friend ;
it’s more than I will, hang him!”

“Poor fellow ! ”’ ‘said I; and now, as I write, I
can only repeat, considering what a hope was here
disappointed, Poor fellow !

August 23rd.—I have been lounging about all day,
thinking of it, dreaming of it, spooning over it, as
they say. This is a decided waste of time. I think,
accordingly, the best thing for me to do is to sit down
and lay the ghost by writing out my little story.

On Thursday evening Miss Quarterman happened
to intimate that she had a holiday on the morrow, it
being the birthday of the lady in whose establishment
she teaches.

‘“‘ There is to be a tea-party at four o’clock in the
afternoon for the resident pupils and teachers,’ Miriam
said. “Tea at four! what do you think of that ?

373

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

And then there is to be a speech-making by the
smartest young lady. As my services are not re-
quired I propose to be absent. Suppose, father, you
take us out in your boat. Will you come, Mr.
Locksley ? We shall have a neat little picnic. Let
us go over to old Fort Plunkett, across the bay. We
will take our dinner with us, and send Cynthia to
spend the day with her sister, and put the house-key
in our pocket, and not come home till we please.”’

I entered into the project with passion, and it was
accordingly carried into execution the next morning,
when—about ten o’clock—we pushed off from our
little wharf at the garden-foot. It was a perfect
summer’s day; I can say no more for it; and we
made a quiet run over to the point of our destination.
I shall never forget the wondrous stillness which
brooded over earth and water as we weighed anchor
in the lee of my old friend—or old enemy—the ruined
fort. The deep, translucent water reposed at the
base of the warm sunlit cliff like a great basin of
glass, which I half expected to hear shiver and crack
as our keel ploughed through it. And how colour
and sound stood out in the translucent air! How
audibly the little ripples on the beach whispered to
the open sky. How our irreverent voices seemed to
jar upon the privacy of the little cove! The delicate
rocks doubled themselves without a flaw in the clear,
dark water. The gleaming white beach lay fringed
with its deep deposits of odorous seaweed, which
looked like masses of black lace. The steep, straggling
sides of the cliffs lifted their rugged angles against
the burning blue of the sky. I remember, when Miss
Quarterman stepped ashore and stood upon the beach,
relieved against the cool darkness of a recess in the
cliff, while her father and I busied ourselves with
gathering up our baskets and fastening the anchor—
I remember, I say, what a picture she made. There

374

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

is a certain purity in the air of this place which I
have never seen surpassed—a lightness, a brilliancy,
a crudity, which allows perfect liberty of self-assertion
to each individual object in the landscape. The
prospect is ever more or less like a picture which lacks
its final process, its reduction to unity. Miss Quarter-
man’s figure, as she stood there on the beach, was
almost criarde; but how it animated the whole
scene! Her light muslin dress, gathered up over her
white petticoat, her little black mantilla, the blue veil
which she had knotted about her neck, the little silken
dome which she poised over her head in one gloved
hand, while the other retained her crisp draperies,
and which cast down upon her face a sharp circle of
shade, where her cheerful eyes shone darkly and her
parted lips said things I lost—these are some of the
points I hastily noted.

“Young woman,”’ I cried out, over the water, ‘‘ I
do wish you might know how pretty you look [ ”’

““ How do you know I don’t ? ’’ she answered. ‘“‘I
should think I might. You don't look so badly your-
self. But it’s not I; it’s the aerial perspective.”’

‘“‘Hang it—I am going to become profane!’ I
called out again.

“‘ Swear ahead,”’ said the Captain.

“Tam going to say you are infernally handsome.”’

“Dear me! is that all?’ cried Miss Quarterman,
with a little light laugh which must have made the -
tutelar sirens of the cove ready to die with jealousy
down in their submarine bowers.

By the time the Captain and I had landed our
effects our companion had tripped lightly up the fore-
head of the cliff—in one place it is very retreating—
and disappeared over its crown. She soon returned,
with an intensely white pocket-handkerchief added
to her other provocations, which she waved to us,
as we trudged upward, carrying our baskets. When

375

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

we stopped to take breath on the summit and wipe
our foreheads, we of course rebuked her for roaming
about idly with her parasol and gloves.

‘Do you think I am going to take any trouble or
do any work?” cried Miss Miriam, in the greatest
good-humour. “Is not this my holiday? Iam not
going to raise a finger, nor soil these beautiful gloves,
for which I paid so much at Mr. Dawson’s at Chowder-
ville. After you have found a shady place for your
provisions, I should like you to look for a spring. I
am very thirsty.”

“‘ Find the Spring yourself, miss,’’ said her father.
“Mr. Locksley and I have a spring in this basket.
Take a pull, sir.”’

And the Captain drew forth a stout black bottle.

‘“‘ Give me a cup, and I will look for some water,”
said Miriam. ‘“‘ Only I’m so afraid of the snakes! If
you hear a scream you may know it’s a snake.”

‘““Screaming snakes!” said I; “that’s a new
species.”

What cheap fun it all sounds now! As we looked
about us shade seemed scarce, as it generally is in
this region. But Miss Quarterman, like the very
adroit and practical young person she is, for all that
she would have me believe the contrary, immediately
discovered flowing water in the shelter of a pleasant
little dell, beneath a clump of firs. Hither, as one
of the young gentlemen who imitate Tennyson would
say, we brought our basket, he and I; while Miriam
dipped the cup, and held it dripping to our thirsty
lips, and laid the cloth, and on the grass disposed
the platters round. I should have to be a poet,
indeed, to describe half the happiness and the silly
sweetness and artless revelry of this interminable
Summer’s day. We ate and drank and talked; we
ate occasionally with our fingers, we drank out of
the necks of our bottles, and we talked with our

376

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

mouths full, as befits (and excuses) those who talk
perfect nonsense. We told stories without the least
point. The Captain and I made atrocious puns. I
believe, indeed, that Miss Quarterman herself made
one little punkin, as I called it. If there had been
any superfluous representative of humanity present
to notice the fact, I should say that we made fools
of ourselves. But as there was no one to criticise
us we were brilliant enough. I am conscious myself
of having said several witty things, which Miss
Quarterman understood: 1m vino veritas. The dear
old Captain twanged the long bow indefatigably.
The bright high sun dawdled above us, in the same
place, and drowned the prospect with light and
warmth. One of these days I mean to paint a picture
which, in future ages, when my dear native land
shall boast a national school of art, will hang in the
Salon Carré of the great central museum (located,
let us say, in Chicago) and recall to folks—or rather
make them forget—Giorgione, Bordone, and Vero-
nese: A Rural Festival ; three persons feasting under
some trees ; scene, nowhere in particular ; time and
hour, problematical. Female figure, a rich brune ;
young man reclining on his elbow ; old man drinking.
An empty sky, with no end of expression. The whole
stupendous in colour, drawing, feeling. Artist un-
certain ; supposed to be Robinson, 1900.

After dinner the Captain began to look out across
the bay, and, noticing the uprising of a little breeze,
expressed a wish to cruise about for an hour or two.
He proposed to us to walk along the shore to a point
a couple of miles northward, and there meet the boat.
His daughter having agreed to this proposition, he
set off with the lightened hamper, and in less than
half an hour we saw him standing out from shore,
Miss Quarterman and I did not begin our walk for
a long, long time. We sat and talked beneath the

377

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

trees. At our fect a wide cleft in the hills—almost
a glen—stretched down to the silent beach; beyond .
lay the familiar ocean-line. But, as many philosophers
have observed, there is an end to all things. At last
we got up. My companion remarked that, as the
air was freshening, she supposed she ought to put
on her shawl. I helped her to fold it into the proper
shape, and then I placed it on her shoulders; it
being an old shawl of faded red (Canton crape, I
believe they call it), which I have seen very often.
And then she tied her veil once more about her
neck, and gave me her hat to hold, while she effected
a partial redistribution of her hair-pins. By way
of being humorous, I spun her hat round on my
stick ; at which she was kind enough to smile, as
with downcast face and uplifted elbows she fumbled
among her braids. And then she shook out the
creases of her dress and drew on her gloves; and
finally she said, ‘‘ Well ! ’—that inevitable tribute to
time and morality which follows upon even the mildest
forms of dissipation. Very slowly it was that we
wandered down the little glen. Slowly, too, we
followed the course of the narrow and sinuous beach,
as it keeps to the foot of the low cliffs. We en-
countered no sign of human life. Our conversation
I need hardly repeat. I think I may trust it to the
keeping of my memory ; it was the sort of thing that
comes back to one—after. Ifsomething ever happens
which I think may, that apparently idle hour will
seem, as one looks back, very symptomatic, and
what we didn’t say be perceived to have been more
significant than what we did. There was something
between us—there ss something between us—-and we
listened to its impalpable presence—I liken it to the
hum (very faint) of an unseen insect—in the golden
stillness of the afternoon. I must add that if she
expects, foresees, if she waits, she does so with a

378

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

supreme serenity. If she is my fate (and she has the
air of it), she is conscious that it’s her fate to be so.

September 1st—I have been working steadily for
a week. This is the first day of autumn. Read
aloud to Miss Quarterman a little Wordsworth.

September 10th. Midnight—Worked without in-
terruption—until yesterday, inclusive, that is. But
with the day now closing—or opening—begins a new
era. My poor vapid old diary, at last you shall hold
a fact.

For three days past we have been having damp,
autumnal weather; dusk has gathered early. This
evening, after tea, the Captain went into town—
on business, as he said: I believe, to attend some
Poorhouse or Hospital Board. Miriam and I went
into the parlour. The place seemed cold ; she brought
in the lamp from the dining-room, and proposed we
should have a little fire. I went into the kitchen,
procured half-a-dozen logs, and, while she drew the
curtains and wheeled up the table, I kindled a lively,
crackling blaze. A fortnight ago she would not have
allowed me to do this without a protest. She would
not have offered to do it herselfi—not she |—but she
would have said that I was not here to serve, but
to be served, and would at least have made a show
of calling the negress. I should have had my own
way, but we have changed all that. Miriam went
to her piano, and I sat down to a book. I read not
a word, but sat considering my fate and watching
it come nearer and nearer. For the first time since
I have known her (my fate) she had put on a dark,
warm dress; I think it was of the material called
alpaca. The first time I saw her (I remember such
things) she wore a white dress with a blue neck-
ribbon ; now she wore a black dress with the same
ribbon. That is, I remember wondering, as I sat
there eyeing her, whether it was the same ribbon,

379

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

or merely another like it. My heart was in my
throat ; and yet I thought of a number of trivialities
of the same kind. At last I spoke.

“Miss Quarterman,”’ I said, ‘‘do you remember
the first evening I passed beneath your roof, last
June?”

“ Perfectly,” she replied, without stopping.

“You played the same piece.”

“Yes; I played it very badly, too. I only half
knew it. But it is a showy piece, and I wished to
produce an effect. I didn’t know then how indifferent
you are to music.”’

“I paid no particular attention to the piece. I
was intent upon the performer.”

‘‘ So the performer supposed.”

‘‘ What reason had you to suppose so ? ”

‘“‘T am sure I don’t know. Did you ever know a
woman to be able to give a reason when she has
guessed aright ? ”

“T think they generally contrive to make up a
reason afterwards. Come, what was yours? ”’

“* Well, you stared so hard.”’

“Fie! Idon’t believe it. That’s unkind.”

“You said you wished me to invent a reason.
If I really had one, I don’t remember it.”

‘You told me you remembered the occasion in
question perfectly.”’

“I meant the circumstances. I remember what
we had for tea ; I remember what dress I wore. But
I don’t remember my feelings. They were naturally
not very memorable.”’

“What did you say when your father proposed
that I should come here ? ”’

“ T asked how much you would be willing to pay ? ”’

“ And then ? ”

“* And aa if you looked respectable.’’

“* And then

380

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

“That was all. I told my father to do as he
pleased.”

She continued to play, and leaning back in my
chair I continued to look at her. There was a
considerable pause.

“‘ Miss Quarterman,”’ said I, at last.

“Well, sir? ”’

“Excuse me for interrupting you so often. But ”’
—and I got up and went to the piano—* but, you
know, I thank heaven that it has brought you and
me together.”

She looked up at me and bowed her head with
a little smile, as her hands still wandered over the
keys.

“Heaven has certainly been very good to us,”
said she.

‘““How much longer are you going to play?” I
asked.

“T’m sure I don’t know. As long as you like.”’

“Tf you want to do as I like, you will stop
immediately.”

She let her hands rest on the keys a moment, and
gave me a rapid, questioning look. Whether she
found a sufficient answer in my face I know not ; but
she slowly rose, and, with a very pretty affectation of
obedience, began to close the instrument. I helped
her to do so.

‘“‘ Perhaps you would like to be quite alone,’’ she
said. ‘I suppose your own room is too cold.”

““Yes,’’ I answered, “‘ you have hit it exactly. I
wish to be alone. I wish to monopolise this cheerful
blaze. Hadn’t you better go into the kitchen and
sit with the cook? It takes you women to make
such cruel speeches.”

“‘ When we women are cruel, Mr. Locksley, it is
the merest accident. We are not wilfully so. When
we learn that we have been unkind we very humbly

381

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

ask pardon, without even knowing what our crime
has been.’” And she made me a very low curtsey.

“‘T will tell you what your crime has been,” said
I. ‘‘Come and sit by the fire. It’s rather a long
story.”

“Along story? Then let me get my work.”

“Confound your work! Excuse me, but you ex-
asperate me. I want you to listen to me. Believe
me, you will need ail your attention.”

She looked at me steadily a moment, and I returned
her glance. During that moment I was reflecting
whether I might put my arm round her waist and
kiss her; but I decided that I might do nothing of
the sort. She walked over and quietly seated herself
in a low chair by the fire. Here she patiently folded
her arms. I sat down before her.

“With you, Miss Quarterman,”’ said I, ‘‘ one must
be very explicit. You are not in the habit of taking
things for granted. You have a great deal of im-
agination, but you rarely exercise it on the behalf
of other people.”’

“Ts that my crime ?”’ asked my companion.

“It’s not so much a crime as a vice, and perhaps
not so much a vice as a virtue. Your crime is, that
you are so stone-cold to a poor devil who loves
you.”

She burst into rather a shrill laugh. I wonder
whether she thought I meant Prendergast.

“Who are you speaking for, Mr. Locksley ? ” she
asked.

“‘ Are there so many? For myself.”’

“ Honestly ? ”

“Do you think me capable of deceiving you ? ”

“What is that French phrase that you are for
ever using? I think I may say ‘Allons donc!’ ”’

** Let us speak plain English, Miss Quarterman.”

‘© Stone-cold ’ is certainly very plain English. I

382

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

don’t see the relative importance of the two branches
of your proposition. Which is the principal, and
which the subordinate clause—that I am stone-cold,
as you call it, or that you love me, as you call
it?”

“ As I callit ? What would you have me call it?
For pity’s sake, Miss Quarterman, be serious, or I
shall call it something else. Yes, I love you. Don’t
you believe it ? ”’

“‘ How can I help believing what you tell me ? ”

‘“‘ Dearest, bravest of women,”’ said I.

And I attempted to take her hand.

“No, no, Mr. Locksley,” said she—“‘ not just yet,
if you please.”

“‘ Actions speak louder than words,”’ said I.

“There is no need of speaking loud. I hear you
perfectly.”

‘TI certainly shall not whisper,” said I; ‘‘ although
it is the custom, I believe, for lovers to do so. Will
you be my wife?”

I don’t know whether she whispered or not, but
before I left her she consented.

September 12th.—We are to be married in about
three weeks.

September 19th.—I have been in New York a week,
transacting business. I got back yesterday. I find
every one here talking about our engagement. Miriam
tells me that it was talked about a month ago, and
that there is a very general feeling of disappointment
that I am so very poor.

“ Really, if you don’t mind it,” I remarked, “I
don’t see why others should.”

‘“‘ T don’t know whether you are poor or not,’’ says
Miriam, “ but I know that I am rich.”

“Indeed! I was not aware that you had a
private fortune,” etc. etc.

This little farce is repeated in some shape every

383

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

day. I am very idle. I smoke a great deal, and
lounge about all day, with my hands in my pockets.
I am free from that ineffable weariness of ceaseless
buying which I suffered from six months ago. That
intercourse was conducted by means of little parcels,
and I have resolved that this engagement, at all
events, shall have no connexion with the shops. I
was cheated of my poetry once ; I shan’t be a second
time. Fortunately there is not much danger of this,
for my mistress is positively lyrical. She takes an
enthusiastic interest in her simple outfit—showing me
triumphantly certain of her purchases, and making
a great mystery about others, which she is pleased to
denominate table-cloths and napkins. Last evening
I found her sewing buttons on a table-cloth. I had
heard a great deal of a certain pink silk dress, and
this morning, accordingly, she marched up to me,
arrayed in this garment, upon which all the art and
taste and eyesight, and all the velvet and lace, of
Chowderville have been lavished.

“There is only one objection to it,” said Miriam,
parading before the glass in my painting-room: “I
am afraid it is above our station.”

“By Jove! I will paint your portrait in it and
make our fortune,” said I. ‘“ All the other men
who have handsome wives will bring them to be
painted.”’

“You mean all the women who have handsome
dresses,’’ Miriam replied, with great humility.

Our wedding is fixed for next Thursday. I tell
Miriam that it will be as little of a wedding, and as
much of a marriage, as possible. Her father and her
good friend Miss Blankenberg (the school-mistress)
alone are to be present. My secret oppresses me
considerably ; but I have resolved to keep it for the
honeymoon, when it may leak out as occasion helps
it. I am harassed with a dismal apprehension that

384

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

if Miriam were to discover it now, the whole thing
would have to be done over again. I have taken
rooms at a romantic little watering-place called
Cragthorpe, ten miles off. The hotel is already
quite purged of cockneys, and we shall be almost
alone.

September 28th—We have been here two days.
The little transaction in the church went off smoothly.
I am truly sorry for the Captain. We drove directly
over here, and reached the place at dusk. It was a
raw, black day. We have a couple of good rooms,
close to the savage sea. I am nevertheless afraid I
have made a mistake. It would perhaps have been
wiser to go to New York. These things are not
immaterial ; we make our own heaven, but we scarcely
make our own earth. I am writing at a little table
by the window, looking out on the rocks, the gathering
dusk, the rising fog. My wife has wandered down
to the rocky platform in front of the house. I can
see her from here, bareheaded, in that old crimson
shawl, talking to one of the landlord’s little boys.
She has just given the infant a kiss, bless her tender
heart ! I remember her telling me once that she was
very fond of little boys ; and, indeed, I have noticed
that they are seldom too dirty for her to take on
her knee. I have been reading over these pages for
the first time in—I don’t know when. They are
filled with her—even more in thought than in word.
I believe 1 will show them to her when she comes
in. I will give her the book to read, and sit by her,
watching her face—watching the great secret dawn
upon her.

Later.—Somehow or other, I can write this quietly
enough ; but I hardly think I shall ever write any
more. When Miriam came in I handed her this
book.

‘“‘T want you to read it,” said I,

385 2C

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

She turned very pale, and laid it on the table,
shaking her head.

‘ T know it,” she said.

“What do you know ? ”’

“That you have ever so much money. But
believe me, Mr. Locksley, I am none the worse for
the knowledge. You intimated in one place in your
book that I am fitted by nature for wealth and
splendour. I verily believe I am. You pretend to
hate your money; but you would not have had me
without it. If you really love me—and I think you
do—you will not let this make any difference. I am
not such a fool as to attempt to talk now about
what passed through me when you asked me to—
to do this. But I remember what I said.”’

‘What do you expect me to do?” I asked.
‘‘ Shall I call you some horrible name and cast you
off 2?”

‘‘T expect you to show the same courage that I
am showing. I never said I loved you. I never
deceived you in that. I said I would be your wife.
So I will, faithfully. I haven’t so much heart as you
think; and yet, too, I have a great deal more. I
am incapable of more than one deception.—Mercy |!
didn’t you see it? didn’t you know it? see that
I saw it? know that I knew it? It was diamond
cut diamond. You cheated me and I mystified you.
Now that you tell me your secret I can tell you mine.
Now we are free, with the fortune that you know.
Excuse me, but it sometimes comes over me! Now
we can be good and honest and true. It was all a
make-believe virtue before.”

“So you read that thing? ”’ I asked: actually—
strange as it may seem—for something to say.

“Yes, while you were ill. It was lying with your
pen init, on the table. I read it because I suspected.
Otherwise I wouldn’t have done so.”

386

A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER

“It was the act of a false woman,”’ said I.

“A false woman? No, it was the act of any
woman—placed as I was placed. You don’t believe
it? ’’ And she began to smile. “Come, you may
abuse me in your diary if you like—lI shall never
peep into it again ! ”

387

ROSE-AGATHE

389

I HAD invited the excellent fellow to dinner, and had
begun to wonder, the stroke of half-past six having
sounded, why he did not present himself. At last I
stepped out upon the balcony and looked along the
street in the direction from which, presumably, he
would approach. A Parisian thoroughfare is always
an entertaining spectacle, and I had still much of a
stranger’s alertness of attention. Before long, there-
fore, I quite forgot my unpunctual guest in my relish
of the multifarious animation of the brilliant city.
It was a perfect evening, toward the end of April ;
there was a charming golden glow on the opposite
house-tops, which looked toward the west ; there was
a sort of vernal odour in the street, mingling with
the emanations of the restaurant across the way,
whose door now always stood open; with the de-
lightful aroma of the chocolate-shop which occupied
the ground-floor of the house in whose entresol I was
lodged ; and, as I fancied, with certain luscious per-
fumes hovering about the brilliantly-polished window
of the hairdresser’s establishment, adjacent to the
restaurant. It had above it the sign, ‘‘ Anatole,
Coiffeur ’’ ; these artists, in Paris, being known only
by their Christian name. Then there was a woman
in a minutely- fluted cap, selling violets in a little
handcart which she gently pushed along over the
smooth asphalt, and which, as she passed, left a
sensible trace in the thick, mild air. All this made a
_ thoroughly Parisian mixture, and I envied Sanguinetti
the privilege of spending his life in a city in which
39t

ROSE-AGATHE

even the humblest of one’s senses i$ the medium of
poetic impressions. There was poetry in the warm,
succulent exhalations of the opposite restaurant,
where, among the lighted lamps, I could see the
little tables glittering with their glass and silver, the
tenderly-brown rolls nestling in the petals of the
folded napkins, the waiters, in their snowy aprons,
standing in the various attitudes of imminent eager-
ness, the agreeable dame de comptotr sitting idle for
the moment and rubbing her plump white hands. To
a person so inordinately fond of chocolate as myself
—there was literally a pretty little box, half-emptied
of large soft globules of the compound, standing at
that moment on my table—there was of course some-
thing very agreeable in the faint upward gusts of the
establishment in my rez-de-chaussée. Presently, too,
it appeared to me that the savours peculiar to the
hairdressing-shop had assumed an extraordinary in-
tensity, and that my right-hand nostril was exposed
to the titillation of a new influence. It was as if a
bottle of the finest hair-oil had suddenly been un-
corked. Glancing that way again, I perceived the
source of this rich effluvium. The hairdresser’s door
was open, and a person whom I supposed to be his
wife had come to inhale upon the threshold the lighter
atmosphere of the street. She stood there for some
moments, looking up and down, and I had time to
see that she was very pretty. She wore a plain black
silk dress, and one needed to know no more of millinery
than most men to observe that it was admirably fitted
to a charming figure. She had a little knot of pink
ribbon at her throat and a bunch of violets in her
rounded bosom. Her face seemed to me at once
beautiful and lively—two merits that are not always
united ; for smiles, I have observed, are infrequent
with women who are either very ugly or very pretty.
Her light-brown hair was, naturally enough, dressed

392

ROSE-AGATHE

with consummate art, and the character of her beauty
being suggestive of purity and gentleness, she looked
(her black silk dress apart) like a Madonna who should
have been coiffée by M. Anatole. What a delightful
person for a barber’s wife, I thought ; and I saw her
sitting in the little front shop, at the desk, and taking
the money with a gracious smile from the gentlemen
who had been having their whiskers trimmed in the
inner sanctuary. I touched my own whiskers, and
straightway decided that they needed trimming. In
’a few moments this lovely woman stepped out upon
the pavement, and strolled along, in front of the shop-
window, on a little tour of inspection. She stood
there a moment, looking at the brilliant array of
brightly-capped flacons, of ivory toilet-implements,
of detached human tresses disposed in every variety
of fashionable convolution: she inclined her head to
one side and gently stroked her chin. I was able to
perceive that even with her back turned she was
hardly less pretty than when seen in front—her back
had, as they say, so much chic. The inclination of
her head denoted contentment, even complacency ;
and, indeed, well it might, for the window was most
artistically arranged. Its principal glory was con-
ferred by two waxen heads of lovely ladies, such as
are usually seen in hairdressers’ windows ; and these
wig-wearing puppets, which maintained a constant
rotary movement, seemed to be a triumph of the
modeller’s art. One of the revolving ladies was dark,
and the other fair, and each tossed back her head and
thrust out her waxen bosom and parted her rosy lips
in the most stylish manner conceivable. Several
persons, passing by, had stopped to admire them. In
a few moments a second inmate came to the door of
the shop, and said a word to the barber’s pretty wife.
_ This was not the barber himself, but a young woman
apparently employed in the shop. She was a nice-

393

ROSE-AGATHE

looking young woman enough, but she had by no
means the beauty of her companion, who, to my
regret, on hearing her voice, instantly went in.

After this I fell to watching something else, I
forget what: I had quite forgotten Sanguinetti. I
think I was looking at a gentleman and lady who
had come into the restaurant and placed themselves
near the great sheet of plate-glass which separated
the interior from the street. The lady, who had the
most wonderfully arched eyebrows, was evidently
ordering the dinner, and I was struck with the pro-
fusion of its items. At last she began to eat her
soup, with her little finger very much curled out, and
ther my gaze wandered toward the hairdresser’s
window again. This circumstance reminded me that
I was really very good-natured to be waiting so placidly
for that dilatory Sanguinetti. There he stood in
front of the coiffeur’s, staring as intently and serenely
into the window as if he had the whole evening before
him. I waited a few moments, to give him a chance
to move on, but he remained there, gaping like a
rustic at a fair. What in the world was he looking
at? Had he spied something that could play a part
in his collection? For Sanguinetti was a collector,
and had a room full of old crockery and uncomfort-
able chairs. But he cared for nothing that was not
a hundred years old, and the pretty things in the
hairdresser’s window all bore the stamp of the latest
Parisian manufacture—were part and parcel of that
modern rubbish which he so cordially despised. What
then had so forcibly arrested his attention ? Was the
poor fellow thinking of buying a new chignon, or a
solitary pendent curl, for the object of his affections ?
This could hardly be, for to my almost certain know-
ledge his affections had no object save the faded
crockery and the angular chairs I have mentioned.
I had, indeed, more than once thought it a pity that

394

ROSE-AGATHE

he should not interest himself in some attractive little
woman ; for he might end by marrying her, and that
would be a blessing, inasmuch as she would probably
take measures for his being punctual when he was
asked out to dinner. I tapped on the edge of the
little railing which served as my window-guard, but
the noise of the street prevented this admonition
from reaching his ear. He was decidedly quite too
absorbed. Then I ventured to hiss at him in the
manner of the Latin races—a mode of address to
“which I have always had a lively aversion, but which,
it must be confessed, proceeding from Latin lips,
reaches its destination in casés in which a nobler
volume of sound will stop half way. Still, like the
warrior’s widow in Tennyson’s song, he neither spake
nor moved. But here, suddenly, I comprehended
the motive of his immobility: he was looking of
course at the barber’s beautiful wife, the pretty
woman with the face of a Madonna and the coiffure
of a Parisienne, whom I myself had just found so
charming. This was really an excuse, and I felt
disposed to allow him a few moments’ grace. There
was evidently an unobstructed space behind the win-
*dow, through which this attractive person could be
perceived as she sat at her desk in some attitude of
graceful diligence—adding up the items of a fine
lady’s little indebtedness for rouge-pots and rice-
powder, or braiding ever so neatly the long tresses of
a fausse natie of the fashionable colour. I promised
myself to look out for this point of visual access the
very first time I should pass.

I gave my tarrying guest another five minutes’
grace, during which the lamps were lighted in the
hairdresser’s shop. The window now became ex-
tremely brilliant; the ivory brushes and the little
silver mirrors glittered and flashed, the coloured
cosmetics in the little toilet-bottles acquired an almost

395

ROSE-AGATHE

appetising radiance, and the beautiful waxen ladies,
tossing back their heads more than ever from their
dazzling busts, seemed to sniff up the agreeable
atmosphere. Of course the hairdresser’s wife had
become even more vividly visible, and so, evidently,
Sanguinetti was finding out. He moved no more
than if he himself had been a barber’s block. This
was all very well, but now, seriously, I was hungry,
and I felt extremely disposed to fling a flower-pot
at him: I had an array of these ornaments in the
balcony. Just then my servant came into the room,
and beckoning to this functionary I pointed out
to him the gentlemafi at the barber’s window, and
bade him go down into the street and interrupt
Mr. Sanguinetti’s contemplations. He departed, de-
scended, and I presently saw him cross the way.
Just as he drew near my friend, however, the latter
turned round, abruptly, and looked at his watch.
Then, with an obvious sense of alarm, he moved
quickly forward; but he had not gone five steps
before he paused again and cast back a supreme
glance at the object of his admiration. He raised
his hand to his lips, and, upon my word, he looked
as if he were kissing it. My servant now accosted’
him with a bow, and motioned toward my balcony ;
but Sanguinetti, without looking up, simply passed
quickly across to my door. He might well be shy
about looking up—kissing his hand in the street to
pretty dames de compioiy: for a modest little man,
who was supposed to care for nothing but bric-a-brac,
and not to be in the least what is called ‘‘ enterprising ”’
with women, this was certainly a very smart jump.
And the hairdresser’s wife ? Had she, on her side,
been kissing her finger-tips to him? I thought it
very possible, and remembered that I had always
heard that Paris is the city of gallantry.

Sanguinetti came in, blushing a good deal, and

396

ROSE-AGATHE

saying that he was extremely sorry to have kept me
waiting.

“Oh,” I answered, ‘‘ I understand it very well. I
have been watching you from my window for the last
quarter of an hour.”’

He smiled a little, blushing still. ‘‘ Though I have
lived in Paris for fifteen years,” he said, “‘ you know
I always look at the shops. One never knows what
one may pick up.”

“You have a taste for picking up pretty faces,”
I rejoined. ‘‘ That is certainly a very pretty one at
the hairdresser’s.”’

Poor Sanguinetti was really very modest; my
“* chaff ’’ discomposed him, and he began to fidget
and protest.

‘“‘ Oh,” I went on, ‘‘ your choice does great honour
to your taste. She’s a very lovely creature ; I admire
her myself.”’

He looked at me a moment, with his soup-spoon
poised. He was always a little afraid of me; he was
sure I thought him a very flimsy fellow, with his
passion for cracked teacups and scraps of old brocade.
But now he seemed a trifle reassured ; he would talk
a little if he dared. ‘“‘ You know there are two of
them,” he said, ‘‘ but one is much more beautiful
than the other.”

“‘ Precisely,’ I answered—"“ the fair one.”’

‘‘ My dear friend,” murmured my guest, “ she is
the most beautiful object I ever beheld.”’

‘“‘ That, perhaps, is going a little too far. But she
is uncommonly handsome.”

“* She is quite perfect,”’ Sanguinetti declared, finish-
ing his soup. And presently he added, “ Shall I tell
you what she looks like ? ”

“* Like a fashionable angel,’’ I said.

** Yes,” he answered, smiling, ‘‘ or like a Madonna
who should have had her hair dressed—over there.”

397

ROSE-AGATHE

‘‘ My dear fellow,’’ I exclaimed, ‘ that is just the
comparison I hit upon a while ago!”

‘“‘ That proves the truth of it. It is areal Madonna
type.”

‘A little Parisianised about the corners of the
mouth,” I rejoined.

“‘ Possibly,”’ said Sanguinetti. ‘‘ But the mouth
is her loveliest feature.”

“Gould you see her well? ’’ I inquired, as I helped
him to a sweetbread.

‘ Beautifully—especially after the gas was lighted.”

‘“‘ Had you never noticed her before ? ”’

‘““ Never, strangely enough. But though, as I say,
I am very fond of shop-windows, I confess to always
having had a great prejudice against those of the
hairdressers.”

‘You see how wrong you were.”

‘“No,. not in general; this is an exception. The
women are usually hideous. They have the most
impossible complexions ; they are always fearfully
sallow. There is one of them in my street, three
doors from my own house: you would say she was
made of——’’ And he paused a moment for his
comparison. ‘‘ You would say she was made of
tallow.”

We finished our sweetbreads, and, I think, talked
of something else, my companion presently drawing
from his pocket and exhibiting with some elation a
little purchase in the antiquarian line which he had
made that morning. It was a small coffee-cup, of
the Sévres manufacture and of the period of Louis XV.,
very delicately painted over with nosegays and gar-
lands. I was far from being competent in such
matters, but Sanguinetti assured me that it bore a
certain little earmark which made it a precious
acquisition. And he put it back into its little red
morocco case, and fell a-musing while his eyes wan-

398

ROSE-AGATHE

dered toward the window. He was fond of old
gimcracks and bibelots, of every order and epoch,
but he had, I knew, a special tenderness for the
productions of the baser period of the French mon-
archy. His collection of snuff-boxes and flowered
screens was highly remarkable—might, I suppose,
have been called celebrated. In spite of his foreign
name he was a genuine compatriot of my own, and
indeed our acquaintance had begun with our being,
as very small boys, at school together. There was
a tradition that Sanguinetti’s grandfather had been
an Italian image-vendor, in the days when those
gentlemen might have claimed in America to be the
only representatives of a care for the fine arts. In
the early part of the century they were also less
numerous than they have since become, and it was
believed that the founder of the transatlantic stock
of the Sanguinettis had, by virtue of his fine Italian
eyes, his slouched hat, his earrings, his persuasive
eloquence, his foreign idioms and his little tray of
plaster effigies and busts, been deemed a personage
of sufficient importance to win the heart and hand of
the daughter of a well-to-do attorney in the State of
Vermont. This lady had brought her husband a
property which he invested in some less brittle
department of the Italian trade, and, prospering
as people, alas! prospered in those good old days,
bequeathed, much augmented, to the father of my
guest. My companion, who had several sisters, was
brought up like a little gentleman, and showed symp-
toms even at the earliest age of his mania for refuse
furniture. At school he used to collect old slate-
pencils and match-boxes ; I suppose he inherited the
taste from his grandfather, who had perambulated
the country with a tray covered with the most useless
ornaments (like a magnified chess-board) upon his
head. When he was twenty years old Sanguinetti

399

ROSE-AGATHE

lost his father and got his share of the patrimony,
with which he immediately came to Europe, where
he had lived these many years. When I first saw
him, on coming to Paris, I asked him if he meant
never to go back to New York, and I very well
remember his answer. ‘“‘ My dear fellow ” (in a very
mournful tone), ‘what can you get there? The
things are all second-rate, and during the Louis Quinze
period, you know, our poor dear country was really—
really———”’_ And he shook his head very slowly and
expressively.

I answered that there were (as I had been told)
very good spinning-wheels and kitchen-settles, but
he rejoined that he cared only for things that were
truly elegant. He was a most simple-minded and
amiable little bachelor, and would have done any-
thing possible to oblige a friend, but he made no
secret of his conviction that ‘ pretty things ” were
the only objects in the world worth troubling one’s
self about. He was very near-sighted, and was always
putting up his glass to look at something on your
chimney-piece or your side-table. He had a lingering,
solemn way of talking about the height of Madame
de Pompadour’s heels and the different shapes of old
Dutch candlesticks ; and though many of his country-
people thought him tremendously “ affected,” he
always seemed to me the least pretentious of men.
He never read the newspapers for their politics, and
didn’t pretend to: he read them only for their lists
of auction-sales. I had a great kindness for him ; he
seemed to me such a pure-minded mortal, sitting there
in his innocent company of Dresden shepherdesses
and beauties whose smiles were stippled on the lids
of snuff-boxes. There is always something agreeable
in a man who is a perfect example of a type, and
Sanguinetti was all of one piece. He was the perfect
authority on pretty things.

400

ROSE-AGATHE

He kept looking at the window, as I have said,
and it required no great shrewdness to guess that his
thoughts had stepped out of it and were hovering in
front of the hairdresser’s éalage. I was inclined to
humour his enthusiasm, for it amused me to see a
man who had hitherto found a pink-faced lady on
a china plate a sufficiently substantial object of
invocation led captive by a charmer who would, as
the phrase is, have something to say for herself.

“‘ Shouldn’t you have liked to have a closer view
of her ?”’ I asked, with a sympathetic smile.

He glanced at me and blushed again. ‘“ That
lovely creature ? ”’

“That lovely creature. Shouldn’t you have liked
to get nearer ? ”’

‘Indeed I should. That sheet of plate-glass is a
great vexation.”

‘‘ But: why didn’t you make a pretext for going
into the shop? You might have bought a tooth-
brush.”

“T don’t know that I should have gained much,”
said Sanguinetti, simply.

“You would have seen her move ; her movement
is charming.”’

“Her movement is—the poetry of motion. But
I could see that outside.”

‘* My dear fellow, you are not enterprising enough,”’
I urged. ‘“‘In your place I should get a footing in
the shop.”

He fixed his clear little near-sighted eyes upon me.
“‘ Yes, yes,” he said, ‘‘ it would certainly be delightful
to be able to sit there and watch her: it would be
more comfortable than standing outside.”

“Rather, my dear boy. But sitting there and
watching her? You go rather far.”

“I suppose I should be a little in the way. But
every now and then she would turn her face toward

401 2D

ROSE-AGATHE

me. And I don’t know but that she is as pretty
behind as before,’”’ he added.

“You make an observation that I made myself.
She has so much chie.”’

Sanguinetti kissed his finger-tips with a movement
that he had learned of his long Parisian sojourn.
“The poetry of chic! But I shall go further,”
he presently pursued. ‘‘I don’t despair, I don’t
despair.”” And he paused, with his hands in his
pockets, tilting himself back in his seat.

“You don’t despair of what ? ”

“Of making her my own.”

I burst out laughing. ‘‘ Your own, my dear fellow |!
You are more enterprising than I thought. But what
do you mean? I don’t suppose that, under the
circumstances, you can marry her ? ”’

“No: under the circumstances, unfortunately, I
can’t. But I can have her always there.”

‘* Always where ? ”

“ At home, in my salon. It’s just the place for
her.”

“ Ah, my good friend,” I rejoined, laughing, but
slightly scandalised, ‘‘ that’s a matter of opinion.”’

“Tt’s a matter of taste. I think it would suit
her.”

A matter of taste, indeed, this question of common
morality ! Sanguinetti was more Parisianised than I
had supposed, and I reflected that Paris was certainly
a very dangerous place, since it had got the better of
his inveterate propriety. But I was not too much
shocked to be still a good deal amused.

“Of course I shall not go too fast,’’ he went on.
“JT shall not be too abrupt.”

“ Pray don’t.”

“T shall approach the matter gradually. I shall
go into the shop several times, to buy certain things.
First a pot of cold cream, then a piece of soap, then

402

ROSE-AGATHE

a bottle of glycerine. I shall go into a great many
ecstasies and express no end of admiration. Mean-
while, she will slowly move around, and every now
and then she will look at me. And so, little by little,
I will come to the great point.”’

“ Perhaps you will not be listened to.”

“‘T will make a very handsome offer.”’

“What sort of an offer do you mean ? ”’

“T am ashamed to tell you: you will call it
throwing away money.”

An offer of money! He was really very crude.
Should I too come to this, if I continued to live in
Paris? “Oh,” I said, “if you think that money
simply will do it-———”’

“Why, you don’t suppose that I expect to have
her for nothing ?”’ He was actually cynical, and I
remained silent. ‘‘ But I shall not be happy again
—at least for a long time ”—he went on, “ unless I
succeed. I have always dreamed of just such a
woman as that; and now at last, when I behold
her perfect image and embodiment, why, I simply
can’t do without her.” He was evidently very
sincere.

“ You are simply in love,” I said.

He looked at me a moment, and blushed. “‘ Yes,
I honestly believe Iam. It’s very absurd.”

“From some point of view or other, infatuations
are always absurd,” I said; and I decided that the
matter was none of my business.

We talked of other things for an hour, but before
he took leave of me Sanguinetti reverted to the
beautiful being at the hairdresser’s. ‘‘ I am sure you
will think me a great donkey,” he said, ‘‘ for taking
that—that creature so seriously’ ; and he nodded in
the direction of the other side of the street.

‘I was always taught, in our country, that it is
one’s duty to take things seriously ! ”

403

ROSE-AGATHE

I made a point, of course, the next day, of stopping
at the hairdresser’s window for the purpose of obtain-
ing another glimpse of the remarkable woman who
had made such an impression upon my friend. I
found, in fact, that there was a large aperture in
the back of the window through which it was very
possible to see what was going on in a considerable
part of the shop. Just then, however, the object of
Sanguinetti’s admiration was not within the range of
vision of a passer-by, and I waited some time without
her appearing. At last, having invented something to
buy, I entered the aromatic precinct. To my vexa-
tion, the attendant who came forward to serve me
was not the charming woman whom I had seen the
evening before on the pavement, but the young person
of inferior attractions who had come to the door to
call her. This young person also wore a black silk
dress and had a very neat figure ; she was beautifully
coiffée and very polite. But she was a very different
affair from Sanguinetti’s friend, and I rather grudged
the five francs that I paid her for the little bottle of
lavender-water that I didn’t want. What should I
do with a bottle of lavender-water ? I would give it
to Sanguinetti. I lingered in the shop under half-a-
dozen pretexts, but still saw no sign of its lovelier
inmate. The other young woman stood smiling and
rubbing her hands, answering my questions and giving
explanations with high-pitched urbanity. At last I
took up my little bottle and laid my hand upon the
door-knob. At that moment a velvet curtain was
raised at the back of the shop, and the hairdresser’s
wife presented herself. She stood there a moment,
with the curtain lifted, looking out and smiling; on
her beautiful head was poised a crisp little morning-
cap. Yes, she was lovely, and I really understood
Sanguinetti’ s sudden passion. But I could not remain
staring at her, and, as I had exhausted my expedients,

404

ROSE-AGATHE

I was obliged to withdraw. I took a position in front
of the shop, however, and presently she approached
the window. She looked into it to see if it was in
proper order. She was still smiling— she seemed
always to be smiling—but she gave no sign of seeing
me, and I felt that if there had been a dozen men
standing there she would have worn that same sweetly
unconscious mask. She glanced about her a moment,
and then, extending a small, fair, dainty hand, she
gave a touch to the back hair of one of the waxen
ladies—the right-hand one, the blonde.

A couple of hours later, rising from breakfast, I
repaired to my little balcony, from which post of
observation I instantly espied a figure stationed at
the hairdresser’s window. If I had not recognised it
otherwise, the attentive, absorbed droop of its head
would at once have proved it to be Sanguinetti.
‘““Why does he not go inside?’’ I asked myself.
‘““ He can’t look at her properly out there.’ At this
conclusion he appeared himself to have arrived, for
he suddenly straightened himself up and entered the
establishment. He remained within a long time. I
grew tired of waiting for him to reappear, and went
back to my arm-chair to finish reading the Débais.
I had just accomplished this somewhat arduous feat
when I heard the lame tinkle of my door-bell, a few
moments after which Sanguinetti was ushered in.

He really looked love-sick ; he was pale and heavy-
eyed. ‘‘ My too-susceptible friend,” I said, “ you
are very far gone.”

“ Yes,’’ he answered; ‘‘I am really in love. It
is too ridiculous. Please don’t tell any one.”

‘“‘T shall certainly tell no one,” I declared. “‘ But
it does not seem to me exactly ridiculous.”’

He gave me a grateful stare. “ Ah, if you don’t
find it so, tant mieux.”

‘‘ Unadvisable, rather; that’s what I should call it.’”’

405

ROSE-AGATHE

He gave me another stare. ‘ You think I can’t
afford it ? ”’

“It is not so much that.”

“You think it won’t look well? I will arrange
it so that the harshest critic will be disarmed. This
morning she is in great beauty,” he added, the next
moment.

‘Yes, I have had a glimpse of her myself,”’ I said.
“‘ And you have been in the shop ? ”

‘‘T have spent half an hour there. I thought it
best to go straight to the point.”

‘What did you say ? ”

“‘T said the simple truth—that I have an intense
desire to possess her.”

‘* And the hairdresser’s wife—how did she take it?”

‘‘ She seemed a good deal amused.”

‘“‘ Amused, simply ? Nothing more ? ”’

‘‘T think she was a little flattered.”

“ T hope so.”

‘Yes,’ my companion rejoined, ‘for, after all,
her own exquisite taste is half the business.” To
this proposition I cordially assented, and Sanguinetti
went on: “ But, after all, too, the dear creature won’t
lose that in coming to me. I shall make arrangements
to have her hair dressed regularly.”

““T see that you mean to do things en prince.
Who is it that dresses her hair ? ”

“ The coiffeur himself.’

“ The husband ? ”

‘“‘ Exactly. They say he is the best in Paris.”’

“‘ The best husband ? ”’ I asked.

‘* My dear fellow, be serious—the best coiffeur.’’

“It will certainly be very obliging of him.”

“ Of course,” said Sanguinetti, “I shall pay him
for his visits, as—if—as if——’’ And he paused a
moment.

“* As if what ? ”

406

ROSE-AGATHE

“‘ As if she were one of his fine ladies. His wife
tells me that he goes to all the duchesses.”’

“Of course that will be something,’ I replied.
“ But stiul——”’

“You mean that I live so far away? I know
that, but I will give him his cab-fare.”’

I looked at him, and—lI couldn’t help it—I began
to laugh. I had never seen such a strange mixture
of passion and reason.

“ Ah,” he exclaimed, blushing, “ you do think it
ridiculous ! ”’

‘* Yes,” I said, ‘‘ coming to this point, I confess it
makes me laugh.”

“I don’t care,” Sanguinetti declared, with amiable
doggedness ; ‘‘ I mean to keep her to myself.”’

Just at this time my attention was much taken
up by the arrival in Paris of some relatives who had
no great talent for assimilating their habits to foreign
customs, and who carried me about in their train as
Cicerone and interpreter. For three or four weeks
I was constantly in their company, and I saw much
less of Sanguinetti than I had done before. He used
to appear, however, at odd moments, in my rooms,
being, as may be imagined, very often in the neigh-
bourhood. I always asked him for the latest tidings
of his audacious flame, which had begun to blaze in
a manner that made him perfectly indifferent to
the judgement of others. The poor fellow was
sincerely in love.

‘* Je suts tout a ma passion,’’ he would say when I
asked him the news. “ Until that matter is settled
I can think of nothing else. I have always been
so when I have wanted a thing intensely. It has
become a monomania, a fixed idea; and naturally
this case is not an exception.” He was always going
into the shop. ‘ We talk it over,” he said. ‘‘ She
can’t make up her mind.”’

407

ROSE-AGATHE

“TI can imagine the difficulty,’ I answered.

“ She says it’s a great change.”’

“ T can also imagine that.”

“IT never see the husband,” said Sanguinetti.
“ He-is always away with his duchesses. But she
talks it over with him. At first he wouldn’t listen
to it.”

“ Naturally |”

“He said it would be an irreparable loss. But
I am in hopes he will come round. He can get on
very well with the other.”

“The other ?—the little dark one? She is not
nearly so pretty.”

“‘Of course not. But she isn’t bad in her way.
I really think,” said Sanguinetti, ‘“‘ that he will come
round. If he does not we will do without his consent,
and take the consequences. He will not be sorry,
after all, to have the money.”

You may be sure that I felt plenty of surprise at
the business-like tone in which Sanguinetti discussed
this unscrupulous project of becoming the “‘ possessor ”’
of another man’s wife. There was certainly no
hypocrisy about it; he had quite passed beyond
the stage at which it is deemed needful to throw a
sop to propriety. But I said to myself that this
was doubtless the Parisian tone, and that, since it
had made its mark upon so perfect a little model
of social orthodoxy as my estimable friend, nothing
was more possible than that I too should become
equally perverted. Whenever, after this, Sanguinetti
came in he had something to say at first about the
lovely creature across the way. ‘‘ Have you noticed
her this morning?’ he would demand. “She is really
enchanting. I thought of asking leave to kiss her.”

“I wonder you should ask leave,’”’ I answered.
“‘T should suppose you would do it without leave,
and count upon being forgiven.”

408

ROSE-AGATHE

“T am afraid of hurting her,’ he said. ‘ And
then if I should be seen from the street, it would
look rather absurd.”’

I could only say that he seemed to me a very
odd mixture of perversity and discretion, but he went
on without heeding my comments: ‘‘ You may laugh
at the idea, but, upon my word, to me she is different
every day ; she has never the same expression. Some-
times she’s a little melancholy—sometimes she’s in
high spirits.”’

‘‘T should say she was always smiling.”’

‘* Superficially, yes,’ said Sanguinetti. ‘‘ That’s
all the vulgar see. But there’s*something beneath it
—the most delicious little pensive look. At bottom
she’s sad. She’s weary of her position there, it’s so
public.—Yesterday she was very pale,’ he would say
at another time; “ I’m sure she wants rest. That
constant movement can’t be good for her. It’s true
she moves very slowly.”’

““ Yes,’”’ said I, ‘“‘ she seemed to me to move very
slowly.”

** And so beautifully ! Still, with me,” Sanguinetti

went on, “she shall be perfectly quiet ; I will see
how that suits her.”

‘“‘T should think she would need a little exercise,”’
I objected.

He stared a moment, and then accused me, as he
often did, of “making game” of him. ‘“ There is
something in your tone in saying that,’’ he remarked ;
but he shortly afterward forgot my sarcastic tendencies,
and came to announce to me a change in the lady’s
coiffure. ‘‘ Have you noticed that she has her hair
dressed differently ? I don’t know that I like it;
it covers up her forehead. But it’s beautifully done,
it’s entirely new, and you will see that it will set
the fashion for all Paris.’

“‘ Do they take the fashion from her ? ”’ I asked.

409

ROSE-AGATHE

“ Always. All the knowing people keep a note
of her successive coiffures.’’

“And when you have carried her off, what will
the knowing people do ? ”

“They will go by the other, the dark one—
Mademoiselle Clémentine.”’

“Is that her name? And the name of your
sweetheart ? ”’

Sanguinetti looked at me an instant, with his
usual helplessly mistrustful little blush, and then he
answered, ‘‘ Rose-Agathe.”’

When I asked him how his suit was prospering,
he usually replied that he believed it to be merely
a question of time. ‘‘ We keep talking it over, and
in that way, at any rate, I can see her. The poor
woman can’t get used to the idea.”

“T should think not.”’

““She says it would change everything—that the
shop would be a different place without her. She is so
well known, so universally admired. I tell her that
it will not be impossible to get a clever substitute ; and
she answers that, clever as the substitute may be, she
will never have the peculiar charm of Rose-Agathe.”’

“Ah! she herself is aware then of this peculiar
charm ? ”

“Perfectly, and it delights her to have me talk
about it.”’

A part of the charm’s peculiarity, I reflected, was
that it was not spoiled by the absence of modesty ;
yet I also remembered the coiffeur’s handsome wife
had looked extremely pudtque. Sanguinetti, however,
appeared bent upon ministering to her vanity; I
learned that he was making her presents. ‘I have
given her a pair of earrings,” he announced, “ and
she is wearing them now. Do notice them as you
pass. They are great big amethysts, and are extremely
becoming.”’

410

ROSE-AGATHE

I looked out for our beautiful friend the next time
I left the house, but she was not visible through
the hairdresser’s window. Her plainer companion
was waiting upon a fine lady, presumably one of the
duchesses, while Madame Anatole herself, I supposed,
was posturing before one of the mirrors in the inner
apartment, with Sanguinetti’s big amethysts in her
ears.

One day he told me that he had determined to
buy her a parure, and he greatly wished I would
come and help him to choose it. I called him an
extravagant dog; but I good-naturedly consented to
accompany him to the jeweller’s. He led me to the
Palais-Royal, and there, somewhat to my surprise,
introduced me into one of those dazzling little shops
which wear upon their front in neat gilt letters the
candid announcement, “ Imitation.’”’ Here you may
purchase any number of glittering gems for the most
inconsiderable sum, and indulge at a moderate expense
a pardonable taste for splendour. And the splendour
is most effective, the glitter of the counterfeit jewels
most natural. It is only the sentiment of the thing,
you say to yourself, that prevents you from making all
your purchases of jewellery in one of these convenient
establishments ; though, indeed, as their proprietors
very aptly remark, fifty thousand francs more (for
instance) is a good deal to pay for sentiment. Of
this expensive superstition, however, I should have
expected Sanguinetti to be guilty.

‘You are not going to get a real set ? ”’ I asked.

He seemed a little annoyed. ‘‘ Wouldn't you in
that case blow me up for my extravagance ? ”’

“It is highly probable. And yet a present of
false jewellery! The handsomer it is, you know, the
more ridiculous it is.”

“JT have thought of that,” said my friend, “ and
I confess I am rather ashamed of myself. I should

AIL

ROSE-AGATHE

like to give her a real set. But, you see, I want
diamonds and sapphires, and a real set such as I desire
would cost about a hundred thousand francs. That’s
a good deal for—for———”’ And he paused a moment.

“ For a barber’s wife,’’ I said to myself.

‘* Besides,’’ my companion added, “‘ she won’t know
the difference.’”’ I thought he rather under-estimated
her intelligence : a pretty Parisienne was, by instinct,
a judge of paruves. I remembered, however, that he
had rarely spoken of this lady’s intellectual qualities ;
he had dwelt exclusively upon her beauty and sweet-
ness. So I stood by him while he purchased for two
hundred francs a gorgeous necklace, and a coronet
of the stones of Golconda. His passion was an odd
affair altogether, and an oddity the more or the less
hardly mattered. He remarked, moreover, that he
had at home a curious collection of artificial gems, and
that these things would be an interesting addition
to his stock. ‘‘ I shall make her wear them all,’’ he
exclaimed ; and I wondered how she would like it.

He told me afterwards that his offering had been
most gratefully received, that she was now wearing
the wonderful necklace, and that she looked lovelier
than ever.

That evening, however, I stopped before the shop
to catch a glimpse, if possible, of the barber’s lady
thus splendidly adorned. I had seldom been fortunate
enough to espy her, and on this occasion I turned
away disappointed. Just as I was doing so I perceived
something which suggested that she was making a
fool of my amiable friend. On the radiant bosom of
one of the great waxen dolls in her window glittered
a necklace of brilliants which bore a striking re-
semblance to the article 1 had helped Sanguinetti to
select. She had made over her lover’s tribute to this
rosy efigy, to whom, it must be confessed, it was
very becoming.

412

ROSE-AGATHE

Yet, for all this, I was out in my calculation. A
week later Sanguinetti came into my rooms with a
radiant countenance, and announced to me the con-
summation of hisdream. ‘She is mine! she is mine!
mine only!’ he cried, dropping into a chair.

‘* She has left the shop ? ”’ I demanded.

‘“‘ Last night—at eleven o’clock. We went off in
a cab.”

“You have her at home ? ”

“For ever and ever! ’’ he exclaimed, ecstatically.

“‘ My dear fellow, my compliments ! ”’

“It was not an easy matter,” he went on. “ But
I held her in my arms.”

I renewed my congratulations, and said I hoped
she was happy; and he declared that she had an
expression of pure bliss. There was something in her
eyes. He added that I must immediately come and
see her ; he was impatient to present me. Nothing,
I answered, would give me greater pleasure, but mean-
while what did the husband say ?

“He grumbles a bit, but I gave him five hundred
francs.”

“You have got off easily,” I said ; and I promised
that at my first moment of leisure I would call upon
my friend’s new companion. I saw him three or four
times before this moment arrived, and he assured me
that she had made a happy man of him. ‘‘ Whenever
I have greatly wanted a thing, waited for it, and at
last got it, I have always been in bliss for a month
afterwards,” he said. “ But I think that this time
my pleasure will really last.”

“* It will last as long, I hope, as she herself does ! ”

““T am sure it will. This is the sort of thing—
yes, smile away—in which I get my happiness.”

“ Vous wéies pas difficile,’ I rejoined.

_ “Qf course she’s perishable,” he added in a
moment.

413

ROSE-AGATHE

“Ah!” said I, ‘ you must take good care of her.”

And a day or two later, on his coming for me, I
went with him to his apartment. His rooms were
charming, and lined from ceiling to floor with the
“pretty things’’ of the occupant—tapestries and
bronzes, terra-cotta medallions and precious specimens
of porcelain. There were cabinets and tables charged
with similar treasures ; the place was a perfect little
museum. Sanguinetti led me through two or three
rooms, and then stopped near a window, close to
which, half hidden by the curtain, stood a lady, with
her head turned away from us, looking out. In spite
of our approach she stood motionless until my friend
went up to her and with a gallant, affectionate move-
ment placed his arm round her waist. Hereupon
she slowly turned and gazed at me with a beautiful
brilliant face and large quiet eyes.

“It is a pity she creaks,’’ said my companion as
I was making my bow. And then, as I made it, I
perceived with amazement—-and amusement —the
cause of her creaking. She existed only from the
waist upward, and the skirt of her dress was a very
neat pedestal covered with red velvet. Sanguinetti
gave another loving twist, and she slowly revolved
again, making a little gentle squeal. She exhibited
the back of her head, with its beautifully braided
tresses resting upon her sloping waxen shoulders.
She was the right-hand effigy of the coiffeur’s window
—the blonde! Her movement, as Sanguinetti had
claimed, was particularly commendable, and of all
his pretty things she was certainly the prettiest.

414

POOR RICHARD

415

I

Miss WHITTAKER’S garden covered a couple of acres,
behind and beside her house, and at its further
extremity was bounded by a large pasture, which
in turn was bordered by the old disused towing-path
beside the river, at this point a slow and shallow
stream. Its low, flat banks were unadorned with
rocks or trees, and a towing-path is not in itself a
romantic promenade. Nevertheless, here sauntered
bareheaded, on a certain spring evening, the mistress
of the acres just mentioned and many more beside,
in sentimental converse with an impassioned and
beautiful youth.

She herself would have been positively plain, but
for the frequent recurrence of a magnificent smile—
which imparted a charm to her somewhat undis-
tinguished features—and (in another degree) for the
elegance of her dress, which expressed one of the
later stages of mourning, and was of that voluminous
abundance proper to women who are both robust
and rich. The good looks of her companion, for
very good they were, in spite of several defects, were
set off by a shabby suit, as carelessly worn as it was
inartistically made. His manner, ashe walked and
talked, was that of a nervous, headstrong man,
wrought almost to desperation; while she had the
air of a person a good deal bored but determined to
be patient. A brief silence, however, had at last fallen

417 2E

POOR RICHARD

upon them. Miss Whittaker strolled along quietly,
looking at the slow-mounting moon, and the young
man gazed on the ground, swinging his stick. Finally,
with a heavy blow, he brought it to earth.

“Oh, Gertrude !’’ he cried, ‘‘ I despise myself.”’

“ That’s very horrid,” said Gertrude.

“ And, Gertrude, I adore you.”’

“That’s more horrid still,’’ said Gertrude, with
her eyes still on the moon. And then, suddenly and
somewhat impatiently transferring them to her com-
panion’s face—‘‘ Richard,”’ she asked, “‘ what do you
mean when you say you adore me ? ”’

“Mean ? I mean that I love you.”

“Then why don’t you say what you mean ? ”’

The young man looked at her a moment. “ Will
you give me leave to say all I mean ? ”

“Oh dear!’’ Then, as he remained silent, “ I
wait for your words,” Gertrude added.

Yet he still said nothing, but went striking
vehemently at the weeds by the water’s edge, like
a young fellow who sees that he is in the wrong
whatever line he takes.

“ Gertrude !’’ he suddenly exclaimed, “‘ what more
do you want than the assurance that [ love you? ”’

“I want nothing more. I am quite satisfied with
that. You yourself seemed to wish to pile it up.”’

“ Either you won’t understand me,’ cried Richard,
“‘or’’—darting a vicious glance at her—‘‘ you can’t!’’

Miss Whittaker stopped and looked thoughtfully
into his face. ‘In our position, if it becomes you to
sacrifice reflexion to feeling, it becomes me to do
the reverse. Listen to me, Richard. I do understand
you, and better, I believe, than you understand
yourself.”

“Qh, you think me a baby, I know! ”’

But she continued, heedless of his interruption.
“I thought that, by leaving you to yourself awhile,

418

POOR RICHARD

your feelings might become clearer to you. But they
seem to be growing only more confused. I have been
so fortunate, or so unfortunate, I hardly know which,”
—and she smiled faintly,—‘‘ as to make you like me.
That’s all very well, but you must not make too much
of it. Nothing could make me happier than to be
liked by you, or by any one else. But here it must
stop with you, as it stops with others.”

“It does not stop here with others.”

‘“‘T beg your pardon. You have no right to say
that. It is partly out of justice to others that I
speak to you as I am doing. I shall always be one
of your best friends, but I shall never be more. It
is best I should tell you this at once. I might trifle
with you awhile and make you happy (since upon
such a poor thing you seem to set your happiness)
by allowing you to suppose that I care for you in
another way; but the end would soon come, and
then where should we be? You may, in your
disappointment, call me heartless now—I freely give.
you leave to call me anything that will ease your
mind—but what would you call me then? Friend-
ship, Richard, is an excellent cure for love. Here is
mine.”’ And she held out her hand.

“No, I thank you,” said Richard, gloomily fold-
ing his arms. ‘‘I know my own feelings,’’ and he
raised his voice. “‘ Haven’t I lived with them night
and day for weeks and weeks? Great heaven,
Gertrude Whittaker, this is no fancy! I’m not one
of that sort. My whole life has gone into my love.
God has let me idle it away hitherto only that I
might begin it with you. Dear Gertrude, hear me!
I have some, at least, of the faculties of a man. I
know I’m not respectable, but I honestly believe I
should repay any one who would bear with me. It’s
true I have neither worked, nor persisted, nor studied,
nor earned a cent. But, on the other hand, I have

419

POOR RICHARD

never cared. for any woman before. I have waited
for you. And now—now, after all, I am to sit down
to simple liking—to friendship! The devil! Be
friends with men whom you don’t make mad! You
do me!”’

An honest flush rose to Gertrude’s cheek. ‘So
much the worse for you!’ she cried, with a bitter
laugh. ‘‘So much the worse for both of us! But
what is your contention? Do you wish to marry
me?”

Richard flinched a moment under this tacit pro-
position suddenly ringing in the air, but not from
want of heart. ‘‘ You have named it,” he said.

“Well, then, I only pity you the more for your
consistency. I can only entreat you again to rest
content with what I have offered you. It’s not such
a bad substitute, Richard, as I understand it. What
my love might be I don’t know—I couldn’t answer
for that; but of the kind of interest I take in you
‘Iam very sure. We both have our duties in this
matter, and I have resolved to take a liberal view of
mine. I might lose patience with you, you know,
and turn away from you altogether—leave you alone
with your dreams, and let you break your heart.
But it’s rather by seeing more of me than by seeing
less that your feelings will change.”

“You don’t mean it! And yours? ”

“T have no doubt they will change, too; not in
kind, but in degree. The better I know you, I am
sure, the better I shall like you. The better too
you will like me. Don’t turn your back upon me—
I speak the truth. You will get to entertain a serious
opinion of me—which I’m sure you haven’t now, or
you wouldn’t talk of my making you mad. But you
must be patient. It’s a singular fact that it takes
longer to learn to live on rational terms with a woman
than to fancy one adores her. A sense of madness

420

POOR RICHARD

is a very poor feeling to marry upon. You wish, of
course, to leave off your idle life and your bad habits
—you see I am so thoroughly your friend that I am
not afraid of touching upon disagreeable facts, as I
should be if I were your ‘adored.’ But you are so
indolent, so irresolute,so undisciplined, so uneducated”
—Gertrude spoke deliberately and watched the effect
of her words—“ that you find a change of life very
difficult. I propose, with your consent, to appoint
myself your caretaker. Henceforth my house will
be open to you as to my dearest friend. Come as
often and stay as long as you please. Not in a few
weeks, perhaps, nor even in a few months, but in
God’s good time, you will be a capable young man,
in working order—which I don’t consider you now,
and which I know you don’t consider yourself. But
I have a great opinion of your talents ” (this was very
shrewd of Gertrude), ‘‘ and even of your nature. If
I turn out to have done you a service, you will not
want to marry me then.”

Richard had silently listened, with a deepening
frown. ‘‘ That’s all very pretty,” he said; “ but it’s
humbug—humbug from beginning to end. What’s
the meaning of all that rigmarole about the in-
consistency of friendship and love? Such talk is
enough to make one curse. Kefuse me outright,
and send me to the devil, if you must; but don’t
bemuddle your own brains at the same time. Ah,
one little word knocks it all to pieces: I want you
for my wife! You make an awful mistake in treating
me as a boy—a deadly mistake. I am in working
order—I began to live properly when I began to love
you. I have sworn off drinking as effectually as if
I hadn’t touched a drop for twenty years. I hate it,
I loathe it—I have drunk my last. No, Gertrude,
I am no longer a boy—you have cured me of that.
Hang it, that’s why I love you! Don’t you see?

421

POOR RICHARD

Ah, Gertrude,’’—and his voice fell—‘‘ you are a great
enchantress! You have no arts, you have none of
the airs and graces of the girls that are called pretty ;
but you are an enchantress without them. It’s
your nature. You are so divinely, damnably honest !
Those clever things you just said were meant for a
dash of cold water, but you can’t drown me by holding
me under a spout. You will say it’s nothing but
common-sense. Very likely; but that is the point.
Your common-sense captivates me—it’s for that that
I love you.”

There was something now so calmly resolute in
his tone that Gertrude was sickened. She found
herself weaker than he, while the happiness of both
of them demanded that she should be stronger.

‘“‘ Richard Maule,’”’ she said, “‘ you are unkind ! ”’
There was a tremor in her voice as she spoke, and
as she ceased speaking she burst into tears. A selfish
sense of victory took possession of the young man.
He threw his arm about her; but she shook it off.
“You are a coward, sir!’’ she cried.

“Oh, softly !’’ said Richard, flushing angrily.

“You go too far ; you persist beyond decency.”

“You hate me now, I suppose,” said Richard,
brutally, like one at bay.

Gertrude brushed away her tears. ‘“‘ No, indeed,”
she answered, sending him a dry, clear glance. ‘‘ To
hate you I should have to have loved you. I pity
you stull.”’

Richard looked at her a moment. ‘I don’t feel
tempted to return the feeling, Gertrude,’ said he. “‘A
woman with so much diplomacy as you needs no pity.”

“T have not diplomacy enough to read your
sarcasm, sir; but I have good-nature enough to
excuse it, and I mean to keep my good-nature to the
end. I mean to keep my temper, I mean to be just,
IT mean to be conclusive, and not to have to return

422

POOR RICHARD

to this matter. It’s not for my pleasure, I would
have you know, that I go into all this ; I have nerves
as well as you. Therefore listen to me once again.
If I don’t love you, Richard, in your way, I don't ;
and if I can’t, I can’t. We can’t love by will. But
with friendship, when it is once established, I believe
the will and the reason may have a great deal to do.
I will, therefore, put the whole of my mind into my
friendship for you, and in that way we shall perhaps
be even. Such a feeling—as I shall naturally show
it—will, after all, not be very different from that
other feeling you ask—as I should naturally show it.
Bravely to reconcile himself to such difference as
there is is no more than a man of honour ought to
do. Do you understand me? ”’

“You have an admirable way of putting things.
‘ After all,’ and ‘such difference as there is’! The
difference is the difference of marriage and no
marriage. I suppose you don’t mean that you are
willing to live with me without that ceremony ? ”’

“ You suppose correctly.”

“Then why do you falsify matters? A woman
is elther a man’s wife, or she isn’t.”

“Yes ; and a woman is either a man’s friend, or
she isn’t.”

“And you are mine, and I am an ungrateful
brute not to rest satisfied! That’s what you mean !
Heaven knows you are right ’—and he paused a
moment, with his eyes on the ground. ‘“ Don’t
despise me, Gertrude,” he went on—‘ I am not so
ungrateful as I seem. I am very much obliged to
you for the pains you have taken. Of course I under-
stand your not loving me. You would be a grand
fool if you did ; and you are no fool, Gertrude.”

‘No, I am no fool, Richard. It’s a great re-
sponsibility—it’s dreadfully vulgar; but, on the
whole, I am rather glad.”

423

POOR RICHARD

‘So am I. I could hate you for it; but there is
no doubt it’s why I love you. If you were a fool
you might love me; but I shouldn't love you, and
if I must choose, I prefer that.”’

‘‘Heaven has chosen for us. Ah, Richard,”
pursued Gertrude, with admirable simplicity, ‘ let
us be good and obey heaven, and we shall be sure to
be happy.” And she held out her hand once more.

Richard took it and raised it to his lips. She felt
their pressure and withdrew it.

“Now you must leave me,” she said. ‘‘ Did you
ride ? ”’

“‘ My horse is at the village.”

““'You can go by the river, then. Good-night,”

“‘ Good-night.”’

The young man moved away in the gathering dusk,
and Miss Whittaker stood for a moment looking after
him.

424

Il

To appreciate the importance of this conversation
the reader must know that Miss Gertrude Whittaker
was a young woman of four-and-twenty, whose father,
recently deceased, had left her alone in the world,
with a large fortune, accumulated by various enter-
prises in that part of the State. He had appointed
a distant and elderly kinswoman, by name Miss
Pendexter, as his daughter’s household companion ;
and an old friend of his own, known to combine
shrewdness with integrity, as her financial adviser.
Motherless, country-bred, with rather thick features,
Gertrude on reaching her majority had neither the
tastes nor the manners of a fine lady. Of a vigorous,
active constitution, with a warm heart, a cool head,
and a very pretty talent for affairs, she was, in virtue
both of her wealth and of her tact, one of the principal
persons of the country-side. These facts had forced
her into a prominence which she made no attempt to
elude, and in which she now felt thoroughly at home.
She knew herself to be a power in the land; she
knew that, present and absent, she was continually
talked about as the rich Miss Whittaker; and
although as modest as a woman need be, she was
neither so timid nor so nervous as to wish to shirk
her implied obligations. Her feelings were indeed,
throughout, strong, rather than delicate; and yet
there was in her whole nature, as the world had

425

POOR RICHARD

learned to look at it, a kind of genial discretion which
attracted universal respect. She was impulsive, yet
circumspect ; thrifty, yet open-handed ; literal, yet
addicted to joking; keenly observant of human
distinctions, yet almost indiscriminately hospitable ;
with an immense fund of common-sense beneath all ;
and yet beyond this—like the priest behind the king
—and despite her preponderantly prosaic and, as it
were, secular tone, a certain latent suggestion of heroic
possibilities which he who had once become sensible of
them (supposing him to be young and enthusiastic)
would linger about her hoping to elicit, as you might
stand and inhale a florid and vigorous dahlia which,
for an instant, in your passage, should have proved
delightfully fragrant. It is upon the actual existence,
in more minds than one, of a mystifying sense of this
desultory aroma that our story is based.

Richard Maule and Gertrude Whittaker were old
friends. They had, in the first place, gone demo-
cratically to the town-school together, as children ;
and then their divergent growth, as boy and girl,
had been conscious of an elastic bond in a continued
intimacy between Gertrude and Fanny Maule,
Richard’s sister, who, however, in the fullness of
time had married and followed her husband to
California. With her departure the old relations
of habit between her brother and her friend had
slackened and gradually ceased. Richard had grown
up a rebellious and troublesome boy, with a disposition
combining stolid apathy and hot-headed eagerness
in equal, contradictory proportions. Losing both of
his parents before he was well out of jackets, he
had found himself at the age of sixteen in possession
actual, and as he supposed uncontested, of the paternal
acres. It was not long, however, before those turned
up who were disposed to question his immediate
ability to manage them; the result of which was,

? 426

POOR RICHARD

that the property was leased for five years, and that
Richard was taken bodily possession of by a maternal
uncle, living on a farm of his own some three hundred
milesaway. Here our young man spent the remainder
of his minority, ostensibly learning agriculture with
his cousins, but actually learning nothing. He had
very soon established, and had subsequently enjoyed
without a day’s interval, the reputation of an ill-
natured fool. He was dull, disobliging, brooding,
lowering. Reading and shooting he liked a little,
because they were solitary pastimes; but he was
very slow in acquiring the arts which help a man
to live happily with others. It was possible to get
on with him only because he was at once too selfish
and too simple for mischief. As soon as he came of
age he entered upon the enjoyment of the old place
on which his boyhood had been passed, and to which
he appeared to cling the more perversely as it was
known to be very thin land. He avoided his neigh-
bours, his father’s former associates ; he seemed to
take pleasure in braving their disapproval of his queer
proceedings ; he informed them that he wanted no
help but what he paid for, and that he expected to
work his farm for himself and by himself. In short,
he proved himself to their satisfaction egregiously
ungrateful and conceited. They were not slow to
discover that his incapacity was as great as his vanity.
In two years he had more than undone the work of
the late lessee, who had tried some clever experiments
on the thankless soil. At the end of three years
people spoke of him as cracked ; it seemed to those
who observed him that there was something so wanton
in his errors as really to impugn his sanity. He ap-
peared to have accepted this view of his condition,
and to have given up all pretence of work. He went
about silent and sullen, like a man who feels that
he has a quarrel with fate. About this time it

427

POOR RICHARD

became generally known that he was often the worse
for liquor ; and he hereupon acquired the deplorable
reputation of a man worse than unsociable—a man
who boozes alone—although it was still doubtful
whether this practice was the cause or the effect of
his poor crops. About this time, too, he began again
to see something of Gertrude Whittaker. For many
months after his return he had been held at his
distance, together with most of the local swains, by
the knowledge of her father’s extreme hostility to
all suitors and fortune-hunters, and then, subsequently
by the illness preceding the old man’s death. When,
however, at last, on the expiration of her term of
mourning, Miss Whittaker opened to society her long-
blockaded ports, Richard had, to all the world’s
amazement, been among the first to profit by this
extension of the general privilege and to cast anchor
in the wide and peaceful waters of her friendship.
He found himself at this moment, considerably to
his surprise, in his twenty-fourth year; that is, a
few months younger than the heiress.

It was impossible that she should not have gathered
from mere juxtaposition an impression of the poor
figure he cut in the world, and of his peculiar relation
to his neighbours and his own affairs. Thanks to
this impression, Richard found a very warm welcome
—the welcome of easy compassion. Gertrude gave
him all the back-news of his sister Fanny, with whom
he had dropped correspondence, and, impelled by
Fanny’s complaints of his long silence, ventured upon
a friendly recommendation that he should go straight
home and write a letter to California. Richard sat
before her, gazing at her out of his dark eyes, and
not only attempting no defence of his conduct, but
rejoicing dumbly in the utter absence of any possible
defence—his exposure seemed so delightful. He
wished he could be scolded like that every day or

428

POOR RICHARD

two ; nothing had ever touched him so softly. He
carried away an extraordinary sense of general allevia-
tion; and forthwith began a series of visits which,
in the space of some ten weeks, culminated in the
interview I have set before the reader. Painfully
diffident in the company of most women, Richard
had not from the first known what it was to be shy
with Gertrude. As a man of the world finds it useful
to refresh his social energies by an occasional féte-a-
téte of an hour with himself, so Richard, with whom
solitude was the rule, derived a certain austere satis-
faction from an hour’s contact with this young lady’s
quick wits and good-humour, her liberal way of life
and active charity. Gradually, however, from a
salutary process, this became a regular luxury. It
was now pleasant to go to Gertrude because he en-
joyed the contagion of her own success—because he
witnessed her happiness without a sense of envy—
because he forgot his entanglements and bad habits
—because, finally, his soul slept away its troubles
beneath her kind, clear eye, very much as his body
had often slept away its weariness in the shade of a
murmuring apple-tree. But the soul, like the body,
will not sleep long without dreaming; and it will
not dream often without wishing at last to tell its
dreams. Richard had one day ventured to impart
his visions to Gertrude, and the revelation apparently
had not been at all to her taste.

The fact that this blundering youth had somehow
worked himself into an intimacy with Miss Whittaker
very soon became public property among their neigh-
bours; and in the hands of these good people, na-
turally enough, received an important addition in the
inference that—strange as it might seem—she was
going to change her name for his. He was, of course,
regarded as a very lucky fellow, and the prevalence
of this impression was doubtless not without its effect

429

POOR RICHARD

on the forbearance of certain long-suffering creditors.
And even if she was not to marry him, it was further
argued, she yet might lend him money; for it was
assumed without question that the necessity of raising
money was the mainspring of Richard’s suit. It
must be declared without delay that this assumption
was precipitate and unfair. Our hero had faults
enough, but a mercenary habit was not one of them ;
nor was an excessive concern on the subject of his
debts one of his virtues. As for Gertrude, wherever
else her perception of her friends’ feelings may have
been at fault, it was not at fault on this point. That
he loved her as desperately as he tried to make her
believe she indeed doubted; but it never occurred
to her to question his disinterestedness. And so, on
the other hand, it was strictly because she was not
in love with him that she resisted him, and not on
account of the disparity of their fortunes. In accept-
ing his very simple and natural overtures to friend-
ship, in calling him “ Richard ’”’ in remembrance of
old days, and in submitting generally to the terms
of their old acquaintance, she had foreseen no dan-
gerous complications. She had regarded him as one
more helpless human being to “ look after.”” She had
espoused his interests (like all good women, Gertrude
was ever more or less of a partisan), because she
loved his sister and because she pitied himself. She
would stand to him i loco sororts. The reader has
seen that she had given herself a long day’s work.

It is not to be supposed that Richard’s compara-
tively pacific retreat at the close of the walk by the
river implied any instinct of resignation to the pros-
pects which Gertrude had opened to him. It is
explained rather by an intensity of purpose so deep
as to believe it could take its time. This was not
the end of his suit, but the beginning. He would not
give in until he was positively beaten. It was all

430

POOR RICHARD

very well, he reflected, that Gertrude should reject
him. Such a woman as she ought properly to be
striven for, and there was something ridiculous in
the idea that she should be easily won, whether by
himself or by another. Richard was a slow thinker,
but he thought more wisely than he talked ; and he
now took back all his angry boasts of accomplished
self-mastery and humbly surveyed the facts of the
case. He was on the way to recovery, but he was
by no means cured, and yet his very humility assured
him that he was curable. He was no hero, certainly,
but he was better than his life; he was no scholar,
but, in his own view at least, he was not an ass.
He was good enough to be better; he was good
enough not to sit by the hour soaking his limited
understanding in whisky. And at the very least, if
he was not worthy to possess Gertrude, he was yet
worthy to strive to obtain her, and to live for evermore
upon the glory of there having been such a question
between himself and the great Miss Whittaker. He
would raise himself then to that level from which he
could address her as an equal, from which he would
have a right to insist on something. How he would
do this he was at a loss to determine. He was con-
scious of a great deal of crude intention, but he cursed
the ignorance which was such an obstacle to his doing
anything in particular. He longed vaguely for some
continuous muscular effort, at the end of which he
should find himself face to face with his mistress.
But as, instead of being a Pagan hero, with an en-
ticing task-list of impossibilities, he was a plain New
England cultivator, with a bad conscience, and nature
with him and not against him—as, after slaying his
dragon, after renouncing liquor, his work was a simple
operation in common-sense—in view of these facts
-he found but little inspiration in his prospect. Never-
theless he fronted it bravely. He was not to obtain

431

POOR RICHARD

Gertrude by making a fortune, but by making himself
a man, by learning to live. But as to learn to live
is to learn to work, he would find some use for his
valour. He would keep sober and clear-headed ; he
would retrieve his land and pay his debts. Then let
her refuse him if she could—or if she dared !
Meanwhile Gertrude, on her side, sat quietly at
home, turning over in her own fashion a dozen little
plans for her friend’s redemption and for making the
stream of his passion turn some other mill. Not but
that she meant rigorously to fulfil her part of the
engagement to which she had invited him in that
painful scene by the river. Yet, with however much
of the same firmness and mildness she might still
meet him, she could not feel secure against repeated
intrusion without the knowledge of a partial change,
at least, in Richard’s own attitude. Such a change
could only be effected through some preparatory
change in his life; and a change in his life could be
brought only about by the introduction of some new
influence. This influence, unfortunately, was hard to
find. However positively Gertrude had dwelt upon
the practical virtue of her friendship, she was, on
further reflexion, led to ask herself whether it mightn’t
be helped in its work. He was welcome enough to
that, but he needed something more. It suddenly
occurred to her, one morning, after Richard’s image
had been crossing and recrossing her mental vision
for a couple of hours with wearisome pertinacity, that
a world of good might accrue to him through the
acquaintance of a person so clever, so superior as
Captain Severn. There was no one who would not
be better for knowing such a man. She would re-
commend Richard to his kindness, and him she would
recommend to Richard’s—what ? Here was the rub!
Where was there common ground between Richard
and such a one as he? To beg him to try to like

432

POOR RICHARD

Richard was easy; to ask Richard to care for him
was absurd. If Richard could only know him the
matter would take care of itself—he would take a
fancy to him in spite of every prejudice. But to
begin to praise any object to her young friend was
,just the way to make him hate it. He himself was
such a subject for pity that it had never occurred to
her to recommend any one to his benevolence. All
the world seemed above him, and he was therefore
out of sorts with all the world. If she could put her
hand on some creature less favoured of nature and
of fortune than himself, he might feel some sympathy
for such a being. Captain Severn had, to her know-
ledge, not been a darling of destiny, but he was
apparently quite contented with his lot, and thus he
was raised several degrees above Richard, who would
be certain to find a tacit rebuke in his resignation.
Still, for all this, Gertrude would bring them together.
She had a high opinion of the Captain’s generosity,
and if Richard should wantonly throw away such a
chance the loss would be his own. It may be thought
that in this enterprise Captain Severn was somewhat
inconsiderately handled. But women have been
known to show their affection for a man by sending
him as a missionary to the cannibals. These words
suggest the propriety of a short description of the
person to whom they refer.

433

III

EDMUND SEVERN was a man of elght-and-twenty,
who, having for some time combated fortune and
his own inclinations as a mathematical tutor in a
country college, had, on the opening of the war,
transferred his abilities to a more heroic field. The
regiment of volunteers to which he belonged, and
which was now a part of the army of the Potomac,
had been raised in Miss Whittaker’s district, and she
had given almost every man in it—as a rich woman
could do—some sign that her thoughts were with
him. His soldiership, like his scholarship, was solid
rather than brilliant. He was not destined to be
heard of at home, nor to be lifted out of regimental
work ; but on many an important occasion in Virginia
he had proved himself in a modest way a very useful
officer. Coming up, early in the war, with a severe
wound, to be nursed by a married sister who was
domiciled in Gertrude’s neighbourhood, he was, like
ali his fellow-sufferers within a wide circuit, very
soon honoured with a visit of anxious inquiry from
Miss Whittaker, who was as yet known to him only
by report, and who transmitted to him the warmest
assurances of sympathy and interest, together with
the liveliest offers of assistance; and incidentally, as
it were, to these, a copious collection of specimens
from her hothouse and storeroom. Severn had taken
the air for the first time in Gertrude’s own cushioned

434

POOR RICHARD

barouche, which she had sent to his door at an early
stage of his convalescence, and which of course he
had immediately made use of to pay his respects to
his benefactress. He was taken aback by the humility
with which, on this occasion, betwixt smiles and tears,
she protested that to be of service to the suffering
brave was a sacred privilege. The Captain liked her
on the spot, and thought of nothing else as he drove
home. Half-a-dozen visits, during the ensuing month,
more than sufficed to convert him into what is called
an admirer ; but as the weeks passed by he perceived
there were great obstacles to his ripening into a real
aspirant. Captain Severn was a serious man; he
was conscientious, discreet, deliberate, unused to act
without a definite purpose. He liked to see where
he was going, and never went far simply because the
country was pretty ; he wanted to know where he
should arrive. In pursuance of this tradition he had
asked himself whether he was prepared to face the
consequences of falling in love with our young lady.
Since he had taken a vow, a twelvemonth before, not
to marry until, by some means or another, he should
have an income to point to, no great change had
come to pass in his fortunes. He was still a poor
man and an unsettled one; he was still awaiting his
real vocation. Moreover, while subject to the chances
of war, he thought it wrong to draw a woman on;
he shrank in horror from the thought of converting
some fresh girl into a figure of mourning. Miss
Whittaker pleased him as he had never been pleased,
but that seemed to him no reason for recanting his
principles. He could no more afford to marry a rich
woman than a poor one. When he should have
earned enough money for two to live upon, then he
would be free to marry whomsoever he might fancy
.—a beggar or an heiress. The truth is that the
Captain was a great deal too proud. It was his fault

435

POOR RICHARD

that he could not bring himself to forget the difference
between his poverty and Gertrude’s wealth. He
would of course have resented the insinuation that
the superior fortune of the woman he loved could
seem to him a reason for not declaring his love ; but
there is no doubt that in the case before us the
sentiment in question didn’t dare—or hadn’t as yet
dared—to lift its head. Severn had a deep aversion
to being in debt. It is probable that, after ail,
he would have accepted obligations gracefully enough
from a person with certain rights; but while a
woman was as yet neither his mistress nor his wife,
the idea of being beholden to her was odious to him.
It would have been a question with one who knew
him whether at this juncture these logical ice-blocks
were destined to resist the warmth of Gertrude’s
charms, or gradually to evaporate and flood the
position. There would have been no question, how-
ever, but that he could keep up his consistency only
at the cost of a considerable moral strain. At this
moment, then, Severn had made up his mind that
Gertrude was not for him, and that it behoved him
to walk very straight. That Miss Whittaker, with
a hundred rational cares, was anything less than
supremely oblivious of him individually, it never
occurred to him to suspect. The truth is that
Gertrude’s private and personal emotions were enter-
tained in a chamber of her heart so remote from the
portals of speech that no sound of their revelry found
its way into the world. She thought of her modest,
soldierly, scholarly friend as a gentleman who would
perhaps some day take to wife some woman, who,
however nice she might be, couldn’t be as nice as
he. But what was she to him? A local roadside
figure—at the very most a sort of millionaire Maud
Miiller—with whom it was pleasant for a lonely way-
farer to exchange a friendly good-morning. Her duty

436

POOR RICHARD

was to fold her arms resignedly, to sit quietly on
the sofa and watch a great happiness sink below the
horizon. With this impression on Gertrude’s part it
is not surprising that Severn was not wrenched out
of himself. The prodigy was apparently to be
wrought—if wrought at all—by her taking her loss
for granted. This left nothing between them but
her casual hospitality, and the effect of that method,
as yet, upon Severn had been none other than its
effect upon all the world. It kept him in his best
form. They talked and fraternised, and moreover
they watched each other, but they breathed not a
word of what each was thinking about most. It was
with perfect honesty, therefore, that she had rebutted
Richard’s insinuation that the Captain enjoyed any
especial favour. He was only another of her social
pensioners.

The result of Gertrude’s meditations was that she
despatched a note to each of her two friends, request-
ing them to take tea with her on the following day.
A couple of hours before tea-time she received a visit
from one Major Luttrel, who was recruiting for a
United States regiment at a large town, some ten
miles away, and who had ridden over in the after-
noon, in accordance with a general invitation con-
veyed to him through an old lady who had bespoken
Miss Whittaker’s consideration for him as a man of
delightful manners and wonderful talents. Gertrude
had replied to her venerable friend, with her wonted
alacrity, that she would be very glad to see Major
Luttrel should he ever come that way, and then had
thought no more about him until his card was brought
to her as she was dressing for the evening. He found
so much to say to her that the interval passed very
rapidly for both of them, before the simultaneous
.entrance of Miss Pendexter and of Gertrude’s guests.
The two officers were already slightly known to each

437

POOR RICHARD

other, and Richard was introduced to each of them.
They eyed the distracted-looking young farmer with
some curiosity. Richard’s was at all times a figure
to attract attention ; but now he was really dramatic
(so Severn thought at least) with his careless garments,
his pale, handsome face, his dark mistrustful eyes,
his nervous movements. Major Luttrel, who struck
Gertrude as at once very agreeable and the least bit
in the world insufferable, was, of course, invited to
remain—which he straightway consented to do; and
it soon became evident to Miss Whittaker that her
little plan would have no fruit. Richard practised a
certain defiant, conscious silence, which, as she feared,
gave him eventually a very pretentious air. His
companions displayed that half-confessed effort to
shine and to outshine natural to clever men who find
themselves concurring to the entertainment of a
young and agreeable woman. Richard sat by, won-
dering in splenetic amazement whether he were an
ignorant boor or they were only a pair of grimacing
comedians. He decided, correctly enough, in sub-
stance, for the former hypothesis ; for it seemed to
him that Gertrude’s extreme accommodation (for as
such he viewed it) of her tone and her manner to theirs
was only another proof of her tremendous cleverness.
How magnanimous an impulse on Richard’s part was
this submission for the sake of the woman he loved
to a fact damning to his own vanity, could have been
determined only by one who knew the proportions of
that vanity. He writhed and chafed under the polish
of tone and the variety of allusion by which the two
officers consigned him to insignificance ; but he was
soon lost in wonder at the richness of resource of their
hostess. For a moment it seemed to him that she
ought to spare him an exhibition by which he could
only be mortified—for didn’t she know his thoughts,
she who was the cause of them all? But the next

438

POOR RICHARD

instant he asked himself, with a great revulsion of
feeling, whether he was afraid to see the proof of how
superior she was to himself. As he gulped down the
sickening fact of his comparative, nay, his absolute
ignorance of the great world represented by his rivals,
he felt like anticipating its consequences by a des-
perate sally into the very field of their conversation.
To some such movement Gertrude was continually
inviting him by her glances, her smiles, her questions,
by certain little calculated silences. But poor Richard
knew that if he should attempt to talk he would
choke ; and this assurance he imparted to his friend
in a look piteously eloquent. He was conscious of a
sensation under which his heart was fast turning into
a fiery furnace, destined to consume all his good
resolutions. He could not answer for the future now.
Suddenly, as tea was drawing to a close, he became
aware that Captain Severn had sunk into a silence
very nearly as helpless as his own, and that he was
covertly watching the progress of a lively dialogue
between Miss Whittaker and Major Luttrel. He had
the singular experience of seeing his own feelings
reflected in the Captain’s face ; that is, he discovered
there an incipient jealousy. Severn too was in love !

439

IV

ON rising from table Gertrude proposed an adjourn-
ment to the garden, where she was very fond of
entertaining her friends at this hour. The sun had
sunk behind a long line of hills, far beyond the
opposite bank of the river, a portion of which was
discernible through a gap in the intervening wood.
The high-piled roof and chimney-stacks, the pictu-
resquely crowded surface, of the old patched and
renovated farmhouse which constituted Miss Whit-
taker’s residence, were ruddy with the declining rays.
Our friends’ long shadows were thrown over the
smooth grass. Gertrude, having graciously gone to
meet the gentlemen’s desire for their cigars, suggested
a stroll toward the river. Before she knew it she
had accepted Major Luttrel’s arm; and, as Miss
Pendexter preferred remaining at home, Severn and
Richard found themselves lounging side by side at a
short distance behind their hostess. Gertrude, who
had noticed the taciturnity which had suddenly fallen
upon Captain Severn, and in her simplicity had
referred it to some unwitting failure of attention on
her own part, hoped to make up for her neglect by
having him at her own side. She was in some degree
consoled, however, by the sight of his conjunction
with Richard. As for Richard, now that he was on
his feet and in the open air, he found it easier to
speak.
440

POOR RICHARD

“Who is that fellow ? ”’ he asked, nodding toward
the Major.

“ Major Luttrel, of the —th Artillery.”

“I don’t like his face much,” said Richard.

“Don’t you?” rejoined Severn, amused at his
companion’s bluntness. ‘‘ He’s not handsome, but
he looks like a soldier.”’

“ He looks like a scoundrel, I think,’’ said Richard.

Severn laughed outright, so that Gertrude glanced
back at him. “ Dearme! I think you put it rather
strongly. He seems to me a very pleasant member
of society.” :

Richard was sorely perplexed. He had expected
to find acceptance for his bitterest animadversions,
and lo! here was the Captain fighting for his enemy.
Such a man as that was no rival. So poor a reviler
could be but a poor adorer. Nevertheless, a certain
new-born scepticism in regard to his old fashion of
measuring human motives prevented him from adopt-
ing this conclusion as final. He would try another
question.

“Do you know Miss Whittaker well ? ”’

“ Tolerably well. She was very kind to me when
I was ill. Since then I have seen her a good many
times.”

“‘ That’s a way she has, being kind to people who
are in trouble,’’ Richard remarked, with a shrewdness
which he thought superior. But as the Captain
merely puffed his cigar responsively, he pursued,
*“‘ What do you think of her appearance ? ”’

“‘ T like it very much,” said the Captain.

** She isn’t beautiful,” said Richard, with calcula-
tion. °

Severn was silent a moment, and then, just as
Richard was about to dismiss him from his thoughts,
as neither formidable nor satisfactory, he replied,
with some emphasis, “‘ You mean she isn’t pretty.

441

POOR RICHARD

She ts beautiful, I think, in spite of the irregularity
of her face. It’s the sort of face you don’t forget.
She has no features, no colour, no lilies nor roses,
no attitudes ; but she has looks, expressions.”’

Severn spoke Richard’s mind as well as his own.
That ‘‘ She isn’t beautiful ’’ had been an extempore
version of the young man’s most cherished dogma,
namely, She is beautiful. The reader will remember
that he had so translated it on a former occasion.
Now, all that he felt was a sense of gratitude to the
Captain for having put it so much more finely than
he, the above being his choicest public expression of
it. But the Captain’s eyes, somewhat brightened
by his short but significant speech, were following
Gertrude’s slow steps. Richard saw that he could
learn more from them than from any further oral
declaration, for something in the lips beneath them
seemed to indicate that they had judged themselves
to have said enough, and they were obviously not
the lips of a simpleton. As he thus deferred, with
unwonted courtesy, to the Captain’s silence, and
transferred his gaze sympathetically to Gertrude’s
shapely shoulders and to her listening ear, he gave
utterance to a tell-tale sigh—a sigh which there was
no mistaking. Severn looked about; it was now
his turn to probe a little. ‘‘ Good heavens,” he
exclaimed, ‘‘ that boy is in love with her!”

After the first shock of surprise he accepted this
fact with rational calmness. Why shouldn’t he be in
love with her? “ Je le suts bien,’’ said the Captain ;
“or, rather, I’m not.” Could it be, Severn pursued,
that he was a favourite? He was an underbred
young farmer, but it was plain that he had a soul
of his own. He almost wished indeed that Richard
might turn out to be in Gertrude’s good f'graces.
“ But if he is,” he reflected, “ why should he sigh
like the wind in the chimney ? It is true that there

442

POOR RICHARD

is no arguing for lovers. I, who am out in the cold,
take my comfort in whistling most impertinently.
It may be that my friend here groans for very bliss.
I confess, however, that he scarcely looks like a
gratified swain.”’

And forthwith this faint-hearted gentleman felt a
twinge of pity for Richard’s probable ill-luck; and
as he compared it with the elaborately defensive
condition of his own affections he felt a further pang
of self-contempt. But it was easier to restore the
equilibrium of his self-respect by an immediate cession
of the field than'by contesting it against this wofully
wounded knight. ‘‘ Whether he wins her or not,
he’ll fight for her,” the Captain mused ; and, as he
glanced at Major Luttrel, he felt there was some com-
fort in that. He didn’t fancy the Major so very much.

They had now reached the water’s edge, where
Gertrude, having made her companion pause, turned
round to await her other guests. As they came up
Severn saw, or thought he saw (which is a very
different thing), that her first look was at Richard.
The ‘‘admirer’”’ in his breast rose fratricidal for a
moment against the quiet observer; but the next
it was pinioned again. ‘“‘ Amen,” said the Captain ;
“it’s none of my business.”’

At this moment Richard was soaring very high.
The end of his bad feelings had been a sudden
exaltation. He looked at the scene before him with
all sorts of remarkable ideas. Why should he stand
tongue-tied, sulking at opportunity, when all nature
beckoned him into the field? There was the river-
path where, a fortnight before, he had found an
eloquence attested by Gertrude’s tears. There was
the admirable Gertrude herself, whose hand he had
kissed and whose waist he had clasped. Surely, he
was master here! Before he knew it he had begun to
express himself—rapidly, nervously, almost defiantly.

443

POOR RICHARD

Major Luttrel having made an observation about
the prettiness of the river, Richard entered upon a
description of its general character and its superior
beauty in that part of its course which traversed
his own property, together with an enumeration of
the fish which were to be found in it and a story
about a great overflow ten years before. He spoke
with sufficient volubility, but with a kind of angry
shyness, his head thrown back and his eyes on the
opposite bank. At last he stopped, feeling that he
had given proof of his manhood, and looked towards
Gertrude, whose eyes he had been afraid to meet
until he had seen his adventure to a close. But she
was looking at Captain Severn, under the impression
that Richard had secured his auditor. Severn was
looking at Luttrel, and Luttrel at Miss Whittaker ;
and all were apparently so deep in observation that
they had marked neither his speech nor his silence.
‘* Truly,”’ thought the young man, ‘I’m well out of
the circle!’’ But he was determined to be patient
still, which was assuredly, all things considered, a
very enlightened resolution. Yet there was always
something spasmodic and unnatural in Richard’s
magnanimity. A touch in the wrong place would
cause it to collapse. It was Gertrude’s evil fortune
to administer this puncture. As the party turned
about toward the house Richard stepped to her side
and offered her his arm, hoping in his heart—so
implicitly did he count upon her sympathy, so almost
boyishly, filially, did he depend upon it—for some
covert token that his heroism, such as it was, had not
been lost upon her.

But Gertrude, intensely preoccupied by the desire
to repair her fancied injustice to the Captain, shook
her head at him without even meeting his eye.
“ Thank you,” she said ; “ I want Captain Severn ” ;
who forthwith approached.

444

POOR RICHARD

Poor Richard felt his feet touch the ground again,
and at that instant he could have flung the Captain
into the stream. Major Luttrel placed himself at
Gertrude’s other elbow, and Richard stood behind
them, almost livid with spite, and half resolved to
turn upon his heel and make his way home by the
river. But it occurred to him that a more elaborate
vengeance would be to follow the trio before him
back to the lawn, and then show them how well
he could dispense with their company. Accordingly,
when they reached the house he stood aloof and
bade Gertrude a grim good-night. He trembled with
eagerness to see whether she would make an attempt
to detain him. But Miss Whittaker, reading in his
voice—it had grown too dark to see his face at the
distance at which he stood—the story of some fancied
affront, and unconsciously contrasting it, perhaps,
with Severn’s clear and unwarped accents, obeyed
what she deemed a prompting of self-respect, and
gave him, without her hand, a farewell as cold as
his own. It is but fair to add that, a couple of hours
later, as she reviewed the incidents of the evening,
she repented very characteristically of this little act
of justice.

445

V

RICHARD hardly knew how he got through the
following week. He found occupation, to a much
greater extent than he suspected, in a sordid yet at
the same time heroic struggle with himself. For
several months now he had been leading, under
Gertrude’s inspiration, a very decent and sober life.
So long as he was at comparative peace with Gertrude
and with himself, such a life was more than easy ;
it was delightful. It produced a moral buoyancy
infinitely more delicate than the exhilaration of liquor.
There was a kind of fascination in keeping the score
of his abstinence. Having abjured excesses, he
practised temperance after the fashion of a novice :
nothing would suit him but not to drink at all. He
was like an unclean man who, having washed himself
clean, remains in the water to splash about. He
wished to be religiously, superstitiously pure. - This
was easy, as I have said, so long as his goddess
smiled, even though it were as a goddess indeed—as
a creature unattainable. But when she frowned and
the heavens grew dark, Richard’s sole dependence
was his own good intention—as flimsy a trust for
an upward scramble, one would have predicted, as
a tuft of grass on the face of a perpendicular cliff.
Flimsy as it looked, however, it served him. It
started and crumbled, but it held, if only by a single
fibre. When Richard had cantered fifty yards away
from Gertrude’s gate in a fit of stupid rage, he suddenly

4406

POOR RICHARD

pulled up his horse and gulped down his passion,
swearing an oath that, suffer what torments of feeling
he might, he would not at least break the continuity
of his reform. It was enough to be drunk in mind ;
he would not be drunk in body. A singular, almost
comical feeling of antagonism to Gertrude lent force
to this resolution. ‘‘ No, madam,” he cried within
himself, ‘I shall nof fall back. Do your best! I
shall keep straight.’’ We recover from great offences
and afflictions by the aid of the same egotism they
were perhaps meant to chasten. Richard went to
bed that night fasting as grimly as a Trappist monk ;
and his foremost impulse the next day was to stupefy
himself with some drudgery. He found no task to
his taste; but he spent the day so actively, in
mechanically getting rid of the time, that Gertrude’s
image found no chance to be importunate. He was
engaged in the work of self-preservation, the most
serious and absorbing work possible to man. Com-
pared to this question of his own manhood it sometimes
seemed not very important, after all, that Gertrude
should listen to him. He tried later to build up
a virtue by the most ruthless experiments and tests.
He took long rides over the country, passing within
a stone’s throw of as many of the scattered wayside
taverns as could be combined in a single circuit. As
he drew near them he sometimes slackened his pace,
as if he were about to dismount, pulled up his horse,
gazed a moment, then, thrusting in his spurs, galloped
‘away again like one pursued. At other times, in the
late evening, when the window-panes were aglow
with the ruddy light within, he would walk slowly
by, looking at the stars, and, after maintaining this
stoical pace for a couple of miles, would hurry home
to his own dim and lonely dwelling. Having success-
fully performed this feat a certain number of times,
-he found his desire for Gertrude coming back to him,

447

POOR RICHARD

but bereft in the interval of a jealousy which now
seemed to him to have been fantastic. One morning,
at any rate, he leaped upon his horse and cantered
back to Miss Whittaker’s.

He had made himself comparatively sure of his
will ; but he was yet to acquire the mastery of his
impulses. As he gave up his horse, according to his
wont, to one of the men at the stable, he saw another
animal, which he recognised as Captain Severn’s.
“Steady, my boy,” he murmured to himself, as he
would have done to a frightened steed. On the
steps of the house he encountered the Captain, who
had just taken his leave. Richard gave him a nod
which was intended to be very friendly, and Severn
nodded back, but didn’t speak. Richard observed,
however, that he was very pale, and that he was
pulling a rosebud to pieces, as he walked ; whereupon
our young man quickened his step. Finding the
parlour empty, he instinctively crossed over to a small
room adjoining it, which Gertrude had converted into
a conservatory ; and as he did so, hardly knowing
it, he lightened his heavy-shod tread. The glass
door was open and Richard looked in. There stood
Gertrude, with her back to him, bending apart with
her hands a couple of tall flowering plants, and looking
through the glazed partition behind them. Advancing
a step, and glancing over the poor girl’s shoulder,
Richard had just time to see Severn mounting his
horse at the stable-door, before Gertrude, startled by
his approach, turned hastily round. Her face was
flushed hot, her eyes brimming with tears.

“You!” she exclaimed, sharply.

Richard’s head swam. That single word was so
charged with an invidious distinction that it seemed
the death-knell of all his hopes. He stepped inside
the room and closed the door, keeping his hand on
the knob.

448

POOR RICHARD

“ Gertrude,’’ he said, ‘‘ you love that man!”

“Well, sir?”

“Do you confess it ? ”’ cried Richard.

“Confess it? Richard Maule, how dare you use
such language? I am in no humour for a scene.
Let me pass.”’

Gertrude was angry; but as for Richard, it may
almost be said that he was mad. ‘‘ One scene a day
is enough, I suppose,” he cried. ‘‘ What are these
tears about ? Wouldn’t he have you? Did he refuse
you, as you refused me? Unfortunate creature ! ”’

Gertrude looked at him a moment with con-
centrated scorn.’ ‘‘ You poor idiot!” she said, for
all answer. She pushed his hand from the latch,
flung open the door, and moved rapidly away.

Left alone, Richard sank down on a sofa and
covered his face with his hands. It burned them,
but he sat motionless, repeating to himself, me-
chanically, as if to avert thought, “‘ You poor idiot !
you poor idiot!’’ At last he got up and made his
way out.

It seemed to Gertrude, for several hours after
this incident, that she had a remarkably strong case
against fortune. It is not necessary to repeqt here
the words she had exchanged with Captain Severn.
They had come within an ace of a mutual under-
standing, and when a single movement of the hand
of either would have jerked aside the curtain that
hung between them, some malignant influence had
paralysed them both. Had they too much pride ?—
too little imagination ? We must content ourselves
with supposing so. Severn had walked blindly
across the yard, saying to himself, “‘ She belongs to
another,” and adding, as he saw Richard, ‘“ and
such another!” Gertrude had stood at her window,
repeating, under her breath, ‘‘ He belongs to himself,
-himself alone.”” And as if this were not enough,

449 2G

POOR RICHARD

when misconceived, slighted, wounded, she had turned
back to her old, passionless, dutiful past, on the path
of retreat to this asylum Richard Maule had arisen
to forewarn her that she should find no peace even
at home. There was something in the impertinence
of his appearance at this moment which gave her
a feeling that fate was against her, and there even
entered into her mind a certain element of dread of
the man whose passion was so insistent. She felt
that it was out of place any longer to pity him. He
was the slave of his passion, but his passion was
strong. In her reaction against Severn’s exaggerated
respect, it gratified her, after a little, to remember
that Richard had been brutal. He, at least, had
ventured to insult her—he had loved her enough to
forget himself. He had dared to make himself odious
in her eyes, because he had cast away conventional
forms. What cared he for the impression he made ?
He cared only for the impression he received. The
violence of this reaction, however, was the measure
of its duration. It was impossible that she should
walk backward so fast without stumbling. Brought
to her senses by this accident, she became aware that
her judgement had deserted its post. She smiled to
herself as she reflected that it had been taking holiday
for a whole afternoon. ‘‘ Richard was right,’ she
said to herself. ‘“‘I am no fool. I can’t be a fool
if I try. I am too thoroughly my father’s daughter
for that. I love that man, but I love myself better.
Of course, then, I don’t deserve to have him. If I
loved him in a way to merit his love, I would sit
down this moment and write him a note telling him
that if he does not come back to me I shall die.
But I shall neither write the note nor die. I shail
live and grow stout, and look after my chickens and
my flowers and my colts, and thank the Lord in my
old age that I have never done anything immodest.

450

POOR RICHARD

Well! I am as He made me. Whether I shall ever
deceive others, I know not; but I certainly shall
never deceive myself. I am quite as sharp as Gertrude
Whittaker ; and this it is that has kept me from
making a fool of myself and writing to poor Richard
the note that I wouldn’t write to Captain Severn.
I needed to fancy myself wronged. I suffer so little
—I needed a sensation. So, shrewd Yankee that
I am, I thought I would get one cheaply by taking
up that unhappy boy. Heaven preserve me from
the heroics, especially the economical heroics! The
one heroic course possible I decline. What, then,
have I to complain of ? Must I tear my hair because
a man of taste has resisted my unspeakable charms ?
To be charming you must be charmed yourself, or
at least you must be able to be charmed ; and that
apparently Iam not. I didn’t love him, or he would
have known it’ If you won’t risk anything how can
you demand of others that they shall ? ”

But at this point of her meditations Gertrude
almost broke down. She felt that she was assigning
herself but a dreary future. Never to be loved but
by an intemperate, uneducated boy, who would never
grow older, was a cheerless prospect, for it seemed to
convert her into a kind of maiden-aunt. Yet her
conscience smote her for her meditated falsity to
Richard, her momentary readiness to succumb to
the temptation to revert to him out of pique. She
recoiled from this thought as from an act cruel and
immoral. Was he any better suited to her now than
he had been a month before ? Was she to apply for
comfort where she would not apply for counsel ?
Was she to drown her vexation at losing Captain
Severn in a passion got up for the occasion? Having
done the young man so bitter a wrong in intention,
nothing would appease her magnanimous remorse (as
time went on) but to repair it in fact. She went so

451

POOR RICHARD

far as to regret the harsh words she had cast upon
him in the conservatory. He had been insolent and
unmannerly, but he had an excuse. Much should
be forgiven him, for he loved much. Even now that
Gertrude had imposed upon her feelings a sterner
regimen than ever, she could not defend herself from
a sweet and sentimental thrill—a thrill in which, as
we have intimated, there was something of a tremor
—at the recollection of his strident accents and his
angry eyes. It was far from her to desire a renewal,
however brief, of this exhibition. She wished simply
to efface from the young man’s morbid mind the
impression that she really scorned him, for she knew
that against such an impression he was capable of
taking the most reckless and ruinous comfort.

Before many mornings had passed, accordingly,
she had a horse saddled, and, dispensing with attend-
ance, took her way to his straggling farm. The house-
door and half the windows stood open; but no
answer came to her repeated summons. She rode
round to the rear of the house, to the barn-yard,
thinly tenanted by a few common fowl, and across
the yard to a road which skirted its lower extremity
and was accessible by an open gate. No human
figure was in sight; nothing was visible in the hot
stillness but the scattered and ripening crops, over
which, in spite of her nervous solicitude, Miss
Whittaker cast the glance of a connoisseur. A great
uneasiness filled her mind as she measured the wide
fields, apparently abandoned by their young master,
and reflected that she perhaps was the cause of his
absence. Ah, where was Richard? As she looked
and listened in vain, her heart rose to her throat, and
she felt herself on the point of calling wistfully upon
his name. But her voice was stayed by the sound
of a heavy rumble of cart-wheels, beyond a turn in
the road. She touched up her horse and cantered

452

POOR RICHARD

along until she reached the bend. A great four-
wheeled cart, laden with masses of newly-broken
stone and drawn by four oxen, was slowly advancing
towards her. Beside it, patiently cracking his whip
and shouting monotonously, walked a young man
in a slouched hat and a red shirt, with his trousers
thrust into his dusty boots. As he saw Gertrude
he halted a moment, amazed, and then advanced,
flicking the air with his whip. Gertrude’s heart went
out to him in a sigh of really tender relief. Her next
reflexion was that he had never looked so well. The
truth is that, in this rough adjustment, the native
barbarian appeared to his advantage. His face and
neck were browned by a week in the fields, his eye
was clear, his step seemed to have learned a certain
manly dignity from its attendance on the heavy
bestial tramp. Gertrude, as he reached her side,
pulled up her horse and held out her gloved fingers
to his brown, dusty hand. He took them, looked for
a moment into her face, and for the second time raised
them to his lips.

“Excuse my glove,” she said, with a little smile.

“Excuse mine,”’ he answered, exhibiting his sun-
burnt, work-stained hand.

“ Richard,” said Gertrude, ‘‘ you never had less
need of excuse in your life. You never looked half
so well.”

He fixed his eyes upon her a moment. ‘“ Why,
you have forgiven me!’”’ he exclaimed.

‘Yes, I have forgiven you—both you and myself.
We both of us behaved very absurdly, but we both
of us had reason. I wish you had come back.”

Richard looked about him, apparently at a loss
for a rejoinder. ‘‘ I have been very busy,’ he said, at
last, with a simplicity of tone slightly studied. He
was always wishing to produce an effect upon her,
and it seemed to him just then that this was the way.

453

POOR RICHARD

It was a certain instinct of calculation, too, that
forbade Gertrude to express all the joy which this
assurance gave her. Excessive joy would have implied
undue surprise ; and it was a part of her plan frankly
to expect the best things of her companion. ‘“ If you
have been busy I congratulate you. What have you
been doing ? ”

‘Oh, a hundred things! I have been quarrying,
and draining, and clearing, and doing a lot of chores.
I thought the best thing was just to put my own
hands to it. I am going to make a stone fence along
the great lot on the hill there. Wallace is for ever
grumbling about his boundaries. I mean to fix them
once for all. What are you laughing at ? ”’

“T am laughing at certain foolish apprehensions
that I have been indulging for a week past. You
are wiser than I, Richard. I have no imagination.”

‘““Do you mean that J have? I haven’t enough
to guess what you do mean.”

‘Why, do you suppose, have I come over this
morning ? ”’

‘“‘ Because you thought I was sulking on account
of your having called me an idiot.”’

“ Sulking, or worse. What do I deserve for the
wrong I have done you ? ”

“You have done me no wrong. You reasoned
fairly enough. You are not obliged to know me
better than I know myself. It’s just like you to be
ready to take back that bad word, and try to make
yourself believe that it was unjust. But it was
perfectly just, and therefore I have managed to bear
it. I was an idiot at that moment—a nasty, impudent
idiot. I don’t know whether that man had been
saying sweet things to you. But if he had you
wouldn't have objected— your face told that; I
should have been less than a man, I should be
unworthy of your—your affection, if I had failed to

454

POOR RICHARD

see it. I did see it—I saw it as clearly as I see those
oxen now; and yet I bounced in with my own ill-
timed claims. To do so was to be an awful ass.
To have been other than an ass would have been to
have waited, to have backed out, to have bitten my
tongue off before I spoke, to have done anything
but what I did. I have no right to claim you,
Gertrude, until I can woo you better than that. It
was the most fortunate thing in the world that you
spoke as you did: it was even kind. It saved me
all the misery of groping about for a starting-point.
Not to have spoken as you did would have been to
let me off far too easy ; and then, probably, I should
have sulked, or, as you very considerately say, done
worse. I had made a false move in the game, and
the only thing to do was to repair it. But you were
not obliged to know that I would so readily admit
my move to have been false. Whenever I have made
a fool of myself, before, I have been for sticking it
out, and trying to turn all mankind—that is, you—
into a fool too, so that I shouldn’t be an exception.
But this time, I think, I had a kind of inspiration.
I felt that my case was desperate. I felt that if I
adopted my folly now I adopted it for ever. The
other day I met a man who had just come home from
Europe, and who spent last summer in Switzerland.
He was telling me about the mountain-climbing over
there—how they get over the glaciers, and all that.
He said that you sometimes came upon great slippery,
snow-covered slopes that end short off in a precipice,
and that if you stumble or lose your footing as you
cross them diagonally, why, you go shooting down,
and you're gone; that is, but for one little dodge.
You have a long walking-pole, with a sharp end, you
know, and as you feel yourself sliding—it’s as likely
as not to be in a sitting posture—you just take this
and ram it into the snow before you, and there you

455

POOR RICHARD

are, stopped. The thing is, of course, to drive it in
far enough, so that it won’t yield or break ; and in
any case it hurts infernally to come whizzing down
upon this upright pole. But the interruption gives
you time to pick yourself up. Well, so it was with
me the other day. I stumbled and fell; I slipped,.
and was whizzing downward ; but I just drove in my
pole and pulled up short. It nearly tore me in two;
but it saved my life.” Richard made this speech
with one hand leaning on the neck of Gertrude’s
horse, and the other on his own side, and with his
head slightly thrown back and his eyes on hers. She
had sat quietly in her saddle, looking down at him.
He had spoken slowly and deliberately, but without
hesitation and without heat. ‘‘ This is not romance,
it’s reality,’’ thought Gertrude. And this feeling it
was that dictated her reply, divesting it of sentiment
so effectually as almost to make it sound trivial.

“It was fortunate you had an alpenstock,” she
said.

“I shall never travel without one again.”

‘‘ Never, at least, with a companion who has the
bad habit of pushing you off the path.”’

“Oh, you may push all you like,’’ said Richard.
“TI give you leave. But isn’t this enough about
myself ? ”’

“ That’s as you think.”

“Well, it’s all I have to say for the present,
except that I am tremendously glad to see you, and
that of course you will stay awhile.”

“‘ But you have your work to do.”

“Oh, I say, never you mind my work. I have
earned my dinner this morning, if you have no objec-
tion; and I propose to share it with you. So we
will go back to the house.”” He turned her horse’s
head about, started up his oxen with his voice, and
walked along beside her on the grassy roadside, with

456

POOR RICHARD

one hand on the horse’s mane and the other swinging
his whip.

Before they reached the yard-gate Gertrude had
thought over what he had just said to her. ‘‘ Enough
about himself,’’ she said, silently echoing his words.
“‘ Yes, heaven be praised, it is about himself. I am
but a means in this matter—he himself, his own
character, his own happiness, is the end.’’ Under
this conviction it seemed to her that her part was
appreciably simplified. Richard was learning wisdom
and self-control, and to exercise his reason—such was
the suit that he was destined to gain. Her duty was
as far as possible to remain passive, and not to inter-
fere with the working of the gods who had selected
her as the instrument of their miracle. As they
reached the gate Richard made a trumpet of his
hands, and sent a ringing summons into the fields ;
whereupon a farm-boy approached, and, with an un-
disguised stare of amazement at Gertrude, took charge
of his master’s team. Gertrude rode up to the door-
step, where her host assisted her to dismount, and
bade her go in and make herself at home, while he
busied himself with the bestowal of her horse. She
found that, in her absence, the old woman who
administered her friend’s household had reappeared,
and had laid out the preparations for his midday
meal. By the time. he returned, with his face and
head shining from a fresh ablution and his shirt
sleeves decently concealed by a coat, Gertrude had ap-
parently won the complete confidence of Mrs. Catching.

Gertrude doffed her hat, and tucked up her riding-
skirt, and sat down, face to face with her entertainer,
over his crumpled table-cloth. The young man
played the host very tenderly and naturally; and
Gertrude hardly knew whether to infer from his
perfect self-possession that her star was already on
‘the wane, or that it was higher in the heavens than

457

POOR RICHARD

ever. The solution of her doubts was not far to seek ;
Richard was absolutely at his ease in her presence.
He had told her indeed that she intoxicated him ;
and truly, in those moments when she was compelled
to oppose her quiet surfaces to his crude unrest, her
whole presence seemed to him to have a kind of
wine-like strength. He had told her that she was an
enchantress, and this assertion, too, had its measure
of truth. But her spell was a steady one ; it sprang
not from her beauty, her wit, her grace—it sprang
from her character. In other words, Gertrude exer-
cised the magnificent power of making her lover forget
her face. Agreeably to this fact, his most frequent
feeling when he was with her was a consciousness of
the liberty to be still—a sensation not unlike that
which in the early afternoon, as he lounged in his
orchard with a pipe, he derived from the sight of the
hot, vaporous hills. He was innocent of that de-
licious trouble which Gertrude’s thoughts had touched
upon as a not unnatural result of her visit, and which
another woman’s fancy would perhaps have demanded
as an indispensable proof of its success. “‘ Porphyro
grew faint,’ the poet assures us, as he stood in
Madeline’s chamber on Saint Agnes’s eve. But
Richard did not in the least grow faint now that his
mistress was actually filling his musty old room with
her voice, her touch, her looks; that she was sitting
in his unfrequented chairs, trailing her skirt over his
faded carpet, casting her perverted image upon his
cheap mirror, and breaking his daily bread. He was
not fluttered when he sat at her well-served table and
trod her muffled floors—why then should he be flut-
tered now? Miss Whittaker was herself in all places,
and (once granted that she was not in trouble) to be
at her side was to drink peace as fully in one place
as in another.

Richard accordingly ate a great working-day dinner

458

POOR RICHARD

in Gertrude’s despite, and she ate a small one for his
sake. She asked questions, moreover, and offered
counsel, with very sisterly freedom. She deplored
the rents in his table-cloth and the dismemberments
of his furniture ; and although by no means absurdly
fastidious in the matter of household elegance, she
could not but think that Richard would be a happier
and a better man if he were a little more comfortable.
She forbore, however, to criticise the poverty of his
domestic arrangements, for she felt that the obvious
answer was that such a state of things was the penalty
of his living alone ; and it was desirable, under the
circumstances, that this idea should remain inarticu-
late.

When at last Gertrude began to bethink herself of
going, Richard broke a long silence by the following
question : “ Gertrude, do you love that man? ”’

““My dear sir,’”’ she said, ‘I refused to tell you
before, because you asked the question as a right.
Of course you do so no longer. No—lI don’t love
him. I have been near it—but I have missed it.
And now good-bye.”’

For a week after her visit Richard worked with
renewed tenacity and felt like a hero. But one
morning he woke up with all his courage gone, and
limpness and languor in its place. He had been
straining his faith in himself to an extreme tension,
and the chord had suddenly snapped. In the hope
that Gertrude’s tender fingers might repair it he rode
over to her, towards evening. On his way through
the village he found people gathered in knots, reading
fresh copies of the Boston newspapers over each
other’s shoulders, and learned that tidings had just
come of a great battle in Virginia, which was also
a great defeat. He procured a copy of the paper
from a man who had done with it, and made haste
to Gertrude’s dwelling.

459

POOR RICHARD

She received his story with all the passionate im-
precations and regrets that were then in fashion.
Before long Major Luttrel presented himself, and for
half-an-hour there was no talk but about the battle.
The talk, however, was chiefly between Gertrude and
the Major, who found considerable ground for differing
opinion, she being a rabid Republican, and he in cool
opposition. Richard sat by, listening apparently, but
with the detachment of one to whom the matter of
the discourse was of much less interest than the
manner of those engaged in it. At last, when tea
was announced, Gertrude told her friends, very
frankly, that she would not invite them to remain
—that her heart was too heavy with her country’s
woes and with visions of carnage and suffering, to
allow her to play the hostess—and that, in short, she
was in the humour to be alone. Of course there was
nothing for the gentlemen but to obey ; but Richard
went out cursing the law under which, in the hour
of his mistress’s sorrow, his company was a bore, not
acure. He watched in vain, as he bade her farewell,
for some little sign that she would like him to stay
but that as she wished to get rid of his companion
civility demanded she should dismiss them both. No
such sign was forthcoming, for the simple reason that
Gertrude was sensible of no such undercurrent. The
men mounted their horses in silence, and rode slowly
along the lane which led from Miss Whittaker’s stables
to the highroad. As they approached the top of the
lane they perceived in the twilight a mounted figyre
coming towards them. Richard’s heart began to
beat with an angry foreboding, which was confirmed
as the rider drew near and disclosed the features
of Captain Severn. Major Luttrel and he, being
bound to exchange some greeting, pulled up their
horses ; and as an attempt to pass them in narrow
quarters would have been a greater incivility than

460

POOR RICHARD

even Richard was prepared to commit, he likewise
halted.

“ This is ugly news, isn’t it? ”’ said Severn. “It
has determined me to go back to-morrow.”

‘Go back where ? ’’ asked Richard.

‘‘ To my regiment.”

“Are you quite on your feet? ’’- asked Major
Luttrel. ‘‘ How is that hole in your side ? ”’

“It’s so much better that I believe it can finish
getting well down there as easily as here. Good-bye,
Major ; perhaps we shall meet again.” And he shook
hands with Major Luttrel. ‘‘ Good-bye, Mr. Maule.”
And, somewhat to Richard’s surprise, he stretched
over and held out his hand to him.

Richard felt that it was tremulous, and, looking
hard into his face, thought he saw there a kind of
agitation, of choked emotion. Hereupon his fancy
coursed back to Gertrude, sitting where he had left
her, in the sentimental twilight, alone with her heavy
heart. With a word, he reflected, a single little word,
a look, a gesture, this happy man whose hand I hold
can heal her distress. ‘‘ Oh,’ he cried to himself,
“ that by this hand I might hold him fast for ever ! ”’

It seemed to the Captain that Richard’s grasp
was needlessly protracted and severe. ‘‘ What a fist
the young horse-breaker has!’ he thought. ‘“‘ Good-
bye,” he repeated aloud, disengaging himself.

“‘ Good-bye,” said Richard. And then he added,
he hardly knew why, ‘“‘ Are you going to bid good-bye
to Miss Whittaker ? ”

“Of course Tam. Isn’t she at home ? ”

Whether Richard really paused or not before he
answered, he never knew. There suddenly arose such
a tumult in his bosom that it seemed to him several
moments before he became conscious of his reply.
But it 1s probable that to Severn it came only too soon.

“No,” said Richard; “she’s not at home. She

461

POOR RICHARD

is out for the evening. We have just been calling.”
As he spoke he shot a glance at his companion,
armed with a challenge of his impending denial.
But the Major just met his glance and then dropped
his eyes. This slight motion was a horrible revela-
tion—he had served the Major too !

“‘ Dear me, I’m so sorry,” said Severn, slacking his
rein—“ I’m so very sorry!’’ And from his saddle he
looked down toward the house more longingly and
regretfully than he knew.

Richard felt himself turning from pale to con-
suming crimson. There was a simple sincerity in
Severn’s words which was almost irresistible. For a
moment he was on the point of shouting out a loud
denial of his falsehood. ‘‘ She is there, she’s alone
and in tears, awaiting you! Go to her—and be
damned!” But before he could gather his words
into his throat they were arrested by Major Luttrel’s
cool, clear voice, which, in its urbanity, seemed to
mock at retractation.

‘“‘ My dear Captain,” said the Major, “I shall be
very glad to take charge of any message.”’

‘Thank you, Major. Praydo. Say how extremely
sorry I was. It was my last chance. Good-bye
again.”” And Captain Severn hastily turned his horse
about, gave him his spurs and galloped away, leaving
his friends standing alone in the middle of the road.
As the sound of his retreat expired, Richard, in spite
of himself, drew a long breath. He sat motionless in
the saddle, hanging his head.

‘Mr. Maule,” the Major remarked at last, “ that
was very brilliantly done.”

Richard looked up. “I never told a lie before—
never |”

‘‘Upon my soul, then, you did it uncommonly
well. You did it so well I almost believed you. No
wonder poor Severn did ! ”’

462

POOR RICHARD

Richard was silent ; then suddenly he broke out,
‘In God’s name, sir, why don’t you call me a black-
guard ? I have done a beastly act !”’

‘“‘Oh come,” said the Major, “ you needn’t mind
that with me. We will take everything that’s proper
in the way of remorse for granted—consider that said.
I feel bound to let you know that I am really much
obliged to you. If you hadn’t stopped him off, how
do you know but that I might have done so ? ”’

“Tf you had, I would have given you the lie in
your teeth.”

‘Would you, indeed? It’s very fortunate, then,
that I held my tongue. If you will have it so, I
won't deny that your little invention sounded very
ugly. I’m devilish glad I didn’t have anything to
do with it, if you come to that.”

Richard felt his wit sharpened by his red-hot
scorn—a scorn far greater for his companion than for
himself. ‘‘ I am glad to hear that it did sound ugly.
To me it seemed beautiful, holy, just. For the space
of a moment it seemed absolutely right that I should
say what I did. But you saw my fault in its horrid
nakedness, and yet you let it pass. You have no
excuse.”

‘J beg your pardon. You are immensely in-
genious, but you are remarkably wrong. Are you
going to make out that I am the guilty party?
Upon my word, you are a cool hand. I have an
excuse. I have the excuse of being interested in
Miss Whittaker’s not having other people running
after her.”’

“So I suppose. But you have no disinterested
regard for her. Otherwise——”

Major Luttrel laid his hand on Richard’s bridle.
‘* Mr. Maule,” said he, ‘‘ I have no wish to talk meta-
physics over this matter. You had better say no
more. I know that your feelings are not of an en-

463

POOR RICHARD

viable kind, and I am therefore prepared to be good-
natured with you. But you must be civil yourself.
You have done a nasty thing, you are ashamed of it,
and you wish to shift the responsibility upon me,
which is more shabby still. My advice is that you
behave like a man of spirit and swallow your little
scruples. I trust you are not going to make a fool
of yourself by any apology or any fancied reparation.
As for its having seemed holy and just to do what
you did, that is mere gammon. A fib is a fib, and
as such is often excusable. As anything else—as a
thing beautiful, holy, or just—it’s quite inexcusable.
Yours was a fib to you, and a fib to me. It serves
me, and I accept it. I suppose you understand me.
I adopt it. You don’t suppose it was because I was
frightened by those big black eyes of yours that I
held my tongue. As for my having a disinterested
regard for Miss Whittaker, I have no report to make
to you about it. I will simply say that I intend, if
possible, to marry her.”’

“‘ She’ll not have you. She’ll never marry a cold-
blooded cheat.”

“T think she’ll prefer him to a hot-blooded one.
Do you want to pick a quarrel with me? Do you
want to make me lose my temper? I shall refuse
you that satisfaction. You have been a coward, and
you want to frighten some one before you go to bed
to make up for it. Touch me and I'll kill you, but
I propose not to notice your animadversions. Have
you anything to say? No? Well, then, good even-
ing.’ And Major Luttrel started away.

It was with white rage that Richard was dumb.
Had he been but a cat’s-paw after all? Heaven
forbid! He sat irresolute for an instant, and then
turned suddenly and cantered back to Gertrude’s
gate. Here he stopped again ; but after a short pause
he went in over the gravel, with a fast-beating heart,

464

POOR RICHARD

wishing Luttrel had been there to see him. For a
moment he fancied he heard the sound of the Major’s
returning steps. If he would only come and find him
at confession—it would be so easy to confess before
him! He went along beside the house to the front,
and stopped beneath the open window of the drawing-
room.

“‘ Gertrude!” he cried softly, from his saddle.

Gertrude immediately appeared. ‘‘ Mercy—you |!”
she exclaimed.

Her voice was neither harsh nor sweet; but her
words and her intonation recalled vividly to Richard’s
mind the scene in the conservatory, and they seemed
to him keenly expressive of disappointment. He was
invaded by a mischievous conviction that she had
been expecting Captain Severn, or that at the least
she had mistaken his voice for the Captain’s. The
truth is she had half imagined it might be—Richard’s
call having been little more than a loud whisper.
The young man sat looking up at her, silent.

“What do you want?” she asked. ‘‘ Can I do
anything for you ? ”

Richard was not destined to do his duty that
evening. A certain indefinable dryness of tone on
Gertrude’s part was the inevitable result of her
finding that this whispered invocation came from
poor Richard. She had been following her own
thoughts. Captain Severn had told her a fortnight
before that, in case of news of a defeat, he should
not await the expiration of his leave of absence to
return. Such news had now come, and it was clear
to her that her friend would immediately take his
departure. Naturally he would come and bid her
farewell, and still more naturally she had her vision
of what might pass between them at such a crisis.
To tell the whole truth, it was under the pressure of
these reflexions that, twenty minutes before, Gertrude

465 2H

POOR RICHARD

had dismissed our two gentlemen. That this long
story should be told in the dozen words with which
she greeted Richard will seem strange to the dis-
interested reader. But in those words poor Richard,
with a lover’s clairvoyance, read it at a single glance.
The same rush of resentment, the same sinking of the
heart that he had felt in the conservatory took posses-
sion of him once more. To be witness of Severn’s
passion for Gertrude—that he could endure. To be
witness of Gertrude’s passion for Severn—against that
obligation his reason rebelled.

‘What is it you wish, Richard ?”’ Gertrude re-
peated. ‘’ Have you forgotten anything ? ”

‘* Nothing—nothing ! ’’ cried the young man. ‘‘ It’s
no matter.”

He gave a great pull at his bridle, and almost
brought his horse back on his haunches, and then,
wheeling him about on himself, he thrust in his spurs
and galloped out of the gate.

On the highway he came upon Major Luttrel, who
stood looking down the lane.

“Tm going to the devil, sir!” cried Richard.
‘“‘ Give me your hand on it.”

Luttrel held out his hand. “My poor young
man,” said he, ‘‘ you are quite out of your mind.
I’m sorry for you. You haven’t been making a fool
of yourself ? ”

“‘ T haven't made it better—I have made it worse ! ”’

Luttrel didn’t quite understand, but he breathed
more freely. ‘‘ You had better go home and go to
bed,” he said. “ You will make yourself ill by all
these gyrations.”

‘“‘I—I'm afraid to go home,” said Richard, in a
broken voice. ‘‘ For God’s sake, come with me ! ’—
and the wretched fellow burst into tears. “I am too
bad for any company but yours,’ he cried, in his sobs.

The Major winced, but he took pity. “Come,

466

POOR RICHARD

come,” said he, “ we shall wriggle through. I will
go home with you.”

They rode off together. That night Richard went
to bed miserably drunk ; although Major Luttrel had
left him at ten o'clock, adjuring him to drink no
more. He awoke the next morning in a violent fever ;
and before evening the doctor, whom one of his hired
men had brought to his bedside, had come and looked
grave and pronounced him very ill.

467

VI

In country districts, where life is quiet, small accidents
loom large ; and accordingly Captain Severn’s sudden
departure for his regiment became very rapidly known
among Gertrude’s neighbours. She herself heard it
from her coachman, who had heard it in the village,
where the Captain had been seen to take the early
train. She received the news calmly enough to out-
ward appearance, but a great tumult rose and died
in her breast. He had gone without a word of fare-
well! Perhaps in the hurry of sudden preparation
he had not had time to call upon her. Still, bare
civility would have dictated his dropping her a line
of writing—he who must have read in her eyes the
feeling which her lips refused to utter, and who had
been indebted to her for considerable attentions. It
was not often that Gertrude threw back into her
friends’ teeth their acceptance of the hospitality which
it had been placed in her power to offer them ; but if
she now mutely reproached Captain Severn with in-
gratitude, it was because he had failed further than
in appearing to forget what she had done for him
—he had also lost all remembrance of the way she
had done it. It is but natural to expect that our
dearest friends will give us credit for our deepest
feelings; and Gertrude had constituted Edmund
Severn her dearest friend. She had not, indeed, asked
his assent to this arrangement, but she had made it
468

POOR RICHARD

the occasion of all kinds of tacit vows ; she had given
him the flower of her womanly charity, and, when his
moment came, he had turned from her without a
look. Gertrude shed no tears. It seemed to her that
she had given her friend tears enough, and that to
expend her soul in weeping would be to waste some-
thing that was now too precious. She would think
no more of Edmund Severn. He should be as little
to her for the future as she was to him.

It was very easy to make this resolution : to keep
it Gertrude found another matter. She could not
think of the war,.she could not talk with her neigh-
bours of current events, she could not take up a
newspaper, without reverting to her absent friend.
She was haunted with the idea that he had not
allowed himself time really to recover, and that a
fortnight’s exposure would send him back to the
hospital. At last it occurred to her that common
decency required that she should make a call upon
Mrs. Martin, the Captain’s sister; and a vague im-
pression that this lady might be the depositary of
some farewell message—perhaps of a letter—which
she was awaiting her convenience to present, led her
at once to undertake this social duty. The carriage
which had been ordered for her projected visit was
at the door when, within a week after Severn’s
departure, Major Luttrel was announced. Gertrude
received him in her bonnet. His first care was to
present Captain Severn’s message of good-bye, to-
gether with his regrets that he had not had a spare
moment to come and see her. As Luttrel performed
this office he watched his hostess narrowly, and was
considerably reassured by the unflinching composure
with which she listened to it. The turn he had given
to Severn’s farewell had been the fruit of much mis-
chievous cogitation. It had seemed to him that, for
his purposes, to represent the absent officer as alluding

469

POOR RICHARD

hastily and mechanically to Miss Whittaker would
be better than to represent him as not alluding at
all, for that would have left a boundless void for the
exercise of Gertrude’s fancy. And he had reasoned
well ; for although he was tempted to infer from her
calmness that his shot had fallen short of the mark,
yet in spite of her silent and almost smiling assent to
his words it had made but one bound to her heart.
Before many minutes she felt that Captain Severn’s
excuse had done her a world of good. ‘“‘ He had not
a spare moment!’ Indeed, as she took to herself
its full expression of indifference, she felt that her
hard, forced smile was deepening into a sign of lively
gratitude to the Major.

Major Luttrel had still another task to perform.
He had spent half an hour on the preceding day at
Richard’s bedside, having ridden over to the farm,
in ignorance of his illness, to see how matters stood
with him. The reader will already have surmised
that the Major was not a person of fastidious delicacy :
he will therefore be the less surprised and shocked
to hear that the sight of the poor young man—
prostrate, fevered, delirious, and to all appearance
rapidly growing worse—filled him with an emotion
by no means akin to despair. In plain terms, he
was very glad to find Richard a prisoner in bed. He
had been racking his brains for a scheme to keep
his young friend out of the way, and now, to his
exceeding satisfaction, the doctors relieved him of
this troublesome care. If Richard was booked for
typhoid fever, which his symptoms seemed to indicate,
he would not, even assuming that he should get well,
be able to leave his room for many weeks. In a
month much might be done; with energy everything
might be done. The reader has been all but directly
informed that the Major’s present purpose was to
possess himself of Miss Whittaker’s confidence, hand,

470

POOR RICHARD

and fortune. He had no money and he had many
needs, and he was so well advanced in life—being
thirty-six years of age—that he had no heart to
think of building up by slow degrees a career which
had not yet taken the luxurious shape he desired. A
man of refined tastes, too, he had become sensible,
as he approached middle age, of the many advantages
of a well-appointed home. He had therefore decided
that a wealthy marriage would spread the carpet
of repose. A girl of rather a fainter outline than
Gertrude would have been the woman—we cannot
say of his heart ; but, as he argued, beggars can’t be
choosers. Gertrude was a young lady with standards
of her own; but, on the whole, he was not afraid of
her—he was abundantly prepared to do his duty.
He had, of course, as became a man of observation,
duly weighed his drawbacks against his advantages ;
and after all his arithmetic there was a balance in
his favour. The only serious difficulty in his path
was the possibility that, on hearing of Richard’s illness,
Gertrude, with her confounded benevolence, would
take a fancy to nurse him in person, and that in the
course of her ministrations his delirious ramblings
would force upon her mind the damning story of the
deception practised upon Captain Severn. There was
nothing for it but boldly to face this risk. As for
that other fact, which many men of a feebler spirit
would have deemed an invincible obstacle, Luttrel’s
masterly understanding had immediately converted it
into the prime agent of success—the fact, namely,
that Gertrude’s affections were already engaged. Such
knowledge as he possessed of the relations between
Miss Whittaker and his comrade in the Volunteers
he had gained by simply watching and taking little
notes. These had been numerous, and on the whole
his knowledge was accurate. It was at least what
he might have termed a good working knowledge.

471

POOR RICHARD

He had calculated on a passionate reactionary impulse
on Gertrude’s part, consequent on Severn’s apparent
delinquency. He knew that in a generous woman
such an impulse, if left to itself, would not go very
far; but on this point it was that his policy bore.
He would not leave it to itself: he would take it
gently into his hands, spin it out, play upon it, and
mould it into a clue which should lead him to the
point he wanted to reach. He thus counted much
upon his skill and his tact ; but he likewise placed a
becoming degree of reliance upon his fine personal
qualities—qualities a little too stiff and solid perhaps
to be called charms, but thoroughly adapted to inspire
confidence. The Major was not a handsome fellow ;
he left that to people who hadn’t the beauty of
cleverness: but his ugliness was of a masculine,
aristocratic, intelligent stamp. His figure, moreover,
was good enough to compensate for the absence of a
straight nose and a fine mouth; and he looked like
a man of action who was at the same time a man of
culture and of society.

In her sudden anxiety on Richard’s behalf Gertrude
soon forgot her selfish heart-ache. The carriage
which was to have conveyed her to Mrs. Martin’s
was used for a more disinterested purpose. The
Major, prompted by a strong faith in the salutary
force of his own presence, having obtained her per-
mission to accompany her, they set out for the farm
and soon found themselves in Richard’s darkened
room. The young man was immersed in a sleep
from which it was judged imprudent to arouse him.
Gertrude, sighing as she compared his bare bedroom
with her own upholstered quarters, drew up a mental
list of objects indispensable which she would immedi-
ately send him. Not that he had not received, however,
a sufficiency of homely care. The doctor was assidu-
ous, and old Mrs. Catching full of rough good sense.

472

POOR RICHARD

Ed

“He asks very often after you, Miss,” she said,
addressing Gertrude, but with a sly glance at the
Major. ‘ But I think you had better not come too
often. I am afraid you would work him up more
than you would quiet him.”’

“Tam afraid you would, Miss Whittaker,”
remarked the Major, who could have hugged Mrs.
Catching.

“Why should I work him up? ” asked Gertrude.
“IT am used to sick-rooms. I nursed my father for
a year and a half.”

“‘ Qh, it’s very well for an old woman like me, but
it’s no place for a fine young lady with a tail to her
gown,” said the goodwife, looking at Gertrude’s
muslins and laces.

‘I am not so fine as to desert a friend in distress,”
said Gertrude. ‘I shall come again, and if it makes
the poor fellow worse to see me, I shall stay away.
I am ready to do anything that will help him to get
well.”’

It had already occurred to her that in his unnatural
state Richard might find her presence a source of
irritation, and she was prepared to remain in the
background. As she returned to her carriage she
caught herself reflecting with so much pleasure upon
Major Luttrel’s kindness in expending a couple of
hours of his valuable time on so unprofitable an object
that, by way of expressing her satisfaction, she
invited him to come home and dine with her.

After a short interval she paid Richard a second
visit, in company with Miss Pendexter. He was a
great deal worse ; he lay there emaciated, exhausted,
stupid ; the issue seemed very doubtful. Gertrude
immediately pushed on to the county town, which
was larger than her own, sought out a professional
nurse, and arranged with her to relieve Mrs. Catching,
who was worn out with sitting up. For a fortnight,

473

POOR RICHARD

moreover, she received constant tidings from the
young man’s physician. During this fortnight Major
Luttrel carried on his siege.

It may be said, to his credit, that he had by no
means conducted his suit upon that narrow programme
which he had drawn up at the outset. He very soon
discovered that Gertrude’s rancour—if rancour there
was—was a substance impalpable to any tactile process
that he was master of, and he had accordingly set to
work to woo her like an honest man, from day to day,
from hour to hour, trusting so devoutly for success to
momentary inspiration that he felt his suit dignified
by a certain flattering faux air of genuine passion.
He occasionally reminded himself, however, that
he might really be more indebted to the favour of
accidental contrast than Gertrude’s life-long reserve
—for it was certain she would not depart from it—
would ever allow him to measure.

It was as an honest man, then—a man of impulse
and of action—that Gertrude had begun to like him.
She was not slow to perceive what he was “ after,”
as they said in that part of the world ; and she was
almost tempted at times to tell him frankly that she
would spare him the intermediate steps and meet
him at the goal without further delay. She knew
very well that she should never fall in love with him,
but it was conceivable she might live with him happily.
An immense weariness had somehow come upon her,
and a sickening sense of loneliness. A vague suspicion
that her money had done her an incurable wrong
inspired her with a profound disgust for the care of
it. She felt cruelly hedged out from human sympathy
by her bristling possessions. ‘‘If I had had five
hundred dollars a year,” she said, in a frequent
parenthesis, “I might have pleased him.”’ Hating
her wealth, accordingly, and chilled by her isolation,
the temptation was strong upon her to give herself

474

POOR RICHARD

up to this wise, brave gentleman who seemed to have
adopted such a happy medium betwixt loving her
for her fortune and fearing her for it. Would she not
always stand between men who would represent the
two extremes? She should make herself decently
secure by an alliance with Major Luttrel.

One evening, on presenting himself, Luttrel read
these thoughts so clearly in her eyes that he made
up his mind to speak. But his mind was burdened
with a couple of facts of which it was necessary that
he should disembarrass it before it could enjoy the
freedom of action the occasion required. In the first
place,’then, he had been over to see Richard Maule,
and had found him suddenly and unexpectedly better.
It was unbecoming, however—it was impossible—that
he should allow Gertrude to dwell long on this pleasant
announcement.

“T tell the good news first,” he said, gravely. “I
have some very bad news, too, Miss Whittaker.”

Gertrude sent him a rapid glance. ‘‘ Some one
has been killed ? ”’

“Captain Severn has been shot,’’ said the Major
—‘ shot by a beastly guerilla.”

Gertrude was silent—no answer seemed possible
to that immitigable fact. She sat with her head
on her hand and her elbow on the table beside her,
looking at the figures in the carpet. She uttered
no words of commonplace regret, but she felt as little
capable of giving way to serious grief. She had lost
nothing, and, to the best of her knowledge, he had
lost nothing. She had an old loss to mourn—a loss
a month old, which she had mourned as she might.
To surrender herself to passion now would have been
but to impugn the sincerity of what had already taken
place in her mind. When she looked up at her com-
panion she was outwardly calm, though I must add
that a single glance of her eye directed him not to

475

POOR RICHARD

presume upon it. She was aware that this glance
betrayed her secret; but in view both of Severn’s
death and of the Major’s position such revelations
were of little moment. Luttrel had prepared to act
upon her hint, and to avert himself gently from the
topic, when Gertrude, who had dropped her eyes again,
raised them with aslight shudder. ‘ I am very cold,”
she murmured. ‘“ Will you shut that window beside
you, Major? Orstay, suppose you give me my shawl
from the sofa.”’

Luttrel brought the shawl, placed it on her
shoulders, and sat down beside her. ‘“‘ These are
cruel times,”’ he said, with studied simplicity. ‘It
is always the best that are taken.”

“Yes, they are cruel times,’’ Gertrude answered.
“They make one feel cruel. They make one doubt
of all one has learnt from one’s pastors and masters.”’

“Yes, but they teach us something new also.”’

“‘T am sure I don’t know,” said Gertrude, whose
heart was so full of bitterness that she felt almost
malignant. ‘ They teach us how mean we are. War
is an infamy, Major, though it ts your trade. It’s
very well for you, who look at it professionally, and
for those who go and fight; but it’s a miserable
business for those who stay at home and do the
thinking and the—the mussing! It’s a miserable
business for women ; it makes us more spiteful than
ever.”’

““ Well, a little spite isn’t a bad thing, in practice,”
said the Major. ‘ War is certainly an abomination,
both at home and in the field. But as wars go, Miss
Whittaker; our own is a very satisfactory one. It
involves important issues. It won’t leave us as it
found us. We are in the midst of a revolution, and
what is a revolution but a turning upside down ?
It makes sad work with our habits and theories—
our traditions and convictions. But, on the other

476

POOR RICHARD

hand,” Luttrel pursued, warming to his task, “it
leaves something untouched which is better than
these—I mean our capacity to feel, Miss Whittaker.”’
And the Major paused until he had caught Gertrude’s
eyes, when, having engaged them with his own, he
proceeded. “I think that is the stronger for the
downfall of so much else, and, upon my soul, I think
it’s in that we ought to take refuge. Don’t you
think so?”

“To feel what ?”’ Gertrude inquired.

“ Affection, admiration, hope!” said the Major.
“T don’t advocate fiddling while Rome is burning,
you know. In fact, it’s only poor unsatisfied devils
that are tempted to fiddle. There is one sentiment
which is respectable and honourable, and even sacred,
at all times and in all places, whatever they may
be. It doesn’t depend upon circumstances, but they
upon it ; and with its help, I think, we are a match
for any circumstances. I don’t mean religion, Miss
Whittaker,’’ added the Major, with a significant smile.

‘““If you don’t mean religion,’”’ said Gertrude, “I
suppose you mean love. That’s a very different
thing.”

“Yes, a very different thing; so I have always
thought, and so I am glad to hear you say. Some
people, you know, mix them up in the most extra-
ordinary fashion. I don’t regard myself as an
especially religious man ; in fact I believe I am rather
remiss in that way. It’s my nature. Half mankind
are born so, or I suppose the affairs of this world
wouldn’t move. But I believe 1 am a good lover,
Miss Whittaker.”’ )

‘‘T hope for your own sake you are, Major
Luttrel.”’

‘Thank you. Do you think now you could
entertain the idea for the sake of any one else ? ”’

Gertrude neither dropped her eyes, nor shrugged

477

POOR RICHARD

her shoulders, nor blushed, nor whimpered. If any-
thing, indeed, she turned somewhat paler than before,
as she sustained her companion’s gaze and prepared
to answer him as directly as she might.

“Tf I loved you, Major Luttrel, I should value
the idea for my own sake.’

The Major, ,too, blanched a little. ‘I put my
question conditionally,’ he answered, ‘“‘ and I have
got, as I deserved, a conditional reply. I will speak
plainly, then, Miss Whittaker. Do you value the
fact for your own sake? It would be plainer still
to say, Do you love me ? but I confess I am not brave
enough for that. I will say, Can you? or I will even
content myself with putting it in the conditional again,
and asking you if you could; although, after all, I
hardly know what the zf understood can reasonably
refer to. Iam not such a fool as to ask of any woman
—least of all of you—to love me contingently. You
can only answer for the present, and say yes or no.
I shouldn’t trouble you to say either if I didn’t
conceive that I had given you time to make up your
mind. It doesn’t take for ever to know Robert Luttrel.
I am not one of the great unfathomable ones. We
have seen each other more or less intimately for a
good many weeks; and as I am conscious, Miss
Whittaker, of having shown you my best, I take for
granted that if you don’t fancy me now you won't
a month hence, when you shall have seen my faults.
Yes, Miss Whittaker, I can solemnly say,’’ continued
the Major, with genuine feeling, “ I have shown you
my best, as every man is in honour bound to do
who approaches a woman with those predispositions
with which I have approached you. I have striven
hard to please you ’’—and he paused. “I can only
say, I hope I have succeeded.”’

‘* [should be very insensible if all your kindness and
your politeness had been lost upon me,”’ Gertrude said.

478

POOR RICHARD

“In heaven’s name don’t talk about politeness ! ”’
cried the Major.

“‘T am deeply conscious of your devotion, and I
am very much obliged to you for urging your claims
so respectfully and considerately. I speak seriously,
Major Luttrel,’’ pursued Gertrude. ‘‘ There is a
happy medium of expression, and you have taken it.
Now it seems to me that there is a happy medium
of affection, with which you might be content. I
don’t love you—no, not at all. I question my heart,
and it gives me that answer. The feeling that I have
is not a feeling to work prodigies.”’

“May it at least work the prodigy of allowing
you to be my wife ? ”’

Gertrude was silent a moment. “If you can
respect a woman who gives you her hand in cold
blood, you are welcome to mine.”’

Luttrel moved his chair and took her hand.
‘“‘ Beggars can’t be choosers,’’ said he, raising it to
his moustache.

“Oh, Major Luttrel, don’t say that,’’ she answered.
“I give you a great deal; but I keep a little—a
little,’ said Gertrude, hesitating, ‘‘ which I suppose
I shall give to God.”

“‘ Well, I shall not be jealous,” said Luttrel.

“ The rest I give to you, and in return I ask a
great deal.”’

‘“‘ T shall give you all.” .

“No, I don’t want more than I give,’ said
Gertrude.

“ But, pray,” asked Luttrel, with an insinuating
smile, ‘‘ what am I to do with the difference ? ”’

“‘ You had better keep it for yourself. What I want
is your protection, sir, your advice, your support.
I want you to take me away from this place, even
if you have to take me down to the army. I want
to see the world under the shelter of your name.

479

POOR RICHARD

I shall give you a great deal of trouble. I am a mere
mass of possessions: what I am is nothing to what
I have. But ever since I began to grow up, what I
am has been the slave of what I have. I am weary
of my chains, and you must help me to carry them.”’
And Gertrude rose to her feet, as if to inform the
Major that his audience was at an end.

_ He still held her right hand; she gave him the
other. He stood looking down at her, an image of
manly humility, while from his silent breast went
up a thanksgiving to favouring fortune.

At the pressure of his hands Gertrude felt her
bosom heave. She burst into tears. ‘‘ Oh, you must
be very kind to me!”’ she cried, as he put his arm
about her, and she dropped her head upon his shoulder.

VIl

WHEN once Richard’s health had taken a turn for the
better, it began very rapidly to improve. “ Until
he is quite well,’’ Gertrude said one day to her
accepted suitor, ‘“‘ I should like him to hear nothing
about our engagement. He was once in love with
me himself,” she added, very frankly. ‘“ Did you
ever suspect it? But I hope he will have got better
of that sad malady, too. Nevertheless, I shall expect
nothing reasonable from him until he is quite strong ;
and as he may hear of my new intentions from other
people, I propose that, for the present, we confide
them to no one.”

‘“ But if he asks me point-blank,” said the Major,
“‘ what shall I answer ?’

“‘ It’s not likely he will ask you. How should he
suspect anything ? ”’

‘““ Oh,” said Luttrel, “that gentleman is one of
your suspicious kind.”’

“Tell him we are not engaged then. A woman
in my position may say what she pleases.”

It was agreed, however, that certain preparations
for the marriage should meanwhile go forward in
secret, and that the ceremony itself should take place
in August, as Luttrel expected to be ordered back
into service in the autumn. At about this moment
Gertrude was surprised to receive a short note from
Richard, so feebly scrawled in pencil as to be barely

481 21

POOR RICHARD

legible. ‘‘ Dear Gertrude,” it ran, ‘“‘ don’t come to
see me just yet. I’m not fit to be seen. You would
hurt me, and I should shock you. God bless you!
R. MAvLE.”” Miss Whittaker explained his request
to herself by the supposition that a report had come
to him of Major Luttrel’s late assiduities (which it
was impossible should go unobserved) ; that, leaping
at the worst, he had taken her engagement for
granted ; and that, under this impression, he could
not trust himself to see her. She despatched him an
answer, telling him that she would await his pleasure,
and that, if the doctor would consent to his having
letters, she would meanwhile occasionally write to
him. ‘She will give me good advice,’ thought
Richard impatiently ; and on this point, accordingly,
she received no account of his wishes. Expecting
to leave her house and close it on her marriage, she
spent many hours in wandering sadly over the
meadow-paths and through the woodlands which she
had known from her childhood. She had thrown
aside the last ensigns of filial regret, and now walked,
sad and splendid, in bright colours which those who
knew her well must have regarded as a kind of self-
defiance. It would have seemed to a stranger that,
for a woman who had freely chosen a companion for
life, she was curiously spiritless and sombre. As she
looked at her pale cheeks and dull eyes in the mirror
she felt ashamed that she had no fairer countenance
to offer to her destined lord. She had lost her single
beauty, her smile, and she would make but a ghastly
figure at the altar. ‘‘ I ought to wear a calico dress
and an apron,’ she said to herself, “and not this
glaring finery.’’ But she continued to wear her
finery, and to lay out her money, and to perform
all her old duties to the letter. After the lapse of
what she deemed a sufficient interval she went
to see Mrs. Martin, and to listen dumbly to her

482

POOR RICHARD

narration of her brother’s death and to her simple
eulogies.

Major Luttrel performed his part quite as bravely,
and much more successfully. He observed neither
too many things nor too few; he neither presumed
upon his success nor hung back from the next steps.
Having, on his side, received no prohibition from
Richard, he made his way back to the farm, trusting
that with the return of reason his young friend might
be disposed to renew that anomalous alliance in which,
on the hapless evening of Captain Severn’s farewell,
he had taken refuge against his despair. In the long,
languid hours of his early convalescence Richard had
found time to survey his position, to summon back
piece by piece the immediate past, and to frame a
general scheme for the future. But more vividly
than anything else there had finally disengaged itself
from his meditations a kind of horror of Robert
Luttrel.

It was in this humour that the Major found him ;
and as he looked at the young man’s gaunt shoulders,
supported by pillows, at his face, so livid and aquiline,
at his great dark eyes, which seemed to shine with
the idea of their possessor’s taking a fresh start, it
struck him that an invincible spirit had been sent
from a better world to breathe confusion upon his
hopes. If Richard hated the Major, the reader may
guess whether the Major loved Richard. Luttrel was
amazed at his first remark.

“I suppose you have got her by this time,’
Richard said, calmly enough.

“Not quite,’ answered the Major. ‘ There’s a
chance for you yet.”

To this Richard made no rejoinder. Then,
suddenly, “Have you had any news of Captain
Severn?” he asked.

For a moment the Major was perplexed at his

483

POOR RICHARD

question. He had supposed that the news of Severn’s
death would have come to Richard’s ears, and he had
been half curious, half apprehensive as to its effect.
But an instant’s reflexion now assured him that the
young man’s estrangement from his neighbours had
kept him hitherto, and might still keep him, in
ignorance of the truth. Hastily, therefore, and
inconsiderately, the Major determined to make this
ignorance last a little longer ; it was always so much
gained. ‘‘ No,’’ said he, “I have had no news.
Severn and I are not on writing terms.”’

The next time Luttrel came to the farm he found
the master sitting up in a cushioned, chintz-covered
arm-chair, which Gertrude had sent him the day
before out of her own dressing-room.

‘Have you got her yet ?’’ asked Richard.

The note of provocation in his tone was so strong
that the Major ceased to temporise. ‘‘ Yes, I have
‘got’ her, as you elegantly express it. We are
engaged to be married.”

The young man’s face betrayed no emotion.

‘“ Are you reconciled to it ? ’’ asked Luttrel.

“‘ Yes—so far as doing anything goes.”

‘What in the name of all that’s conceited could
you do? Explain yourself.”

‘““A man in my state can’t explain himself. I
mean that, however much I hate you, I shall accept
Gertrude’s marriage.”

“It will be very kind of you. And you will be a
wise man,” the Major added.

“TIT am growing wise. I feel like Solomon on his
throne, in this chair. But I confess, sir, I don’t see
how she could have you.”

‘* Well, there’s no accounting for tastes,” said the
Major, good-humouredly.

“Yes, but I thought hers was better.”

They came to no more express understanding than

484

POOR RICHARD

this with regard to the future. Richard continued to
grow stronger, and to put off, in the same measure,
the renewal of his intercourse with Gertrude. A month
before he would have resented as an insult the in-
timation that he should ever be so resigned to lose
her as he found himself now. He would not see her
for two reasons: first, because he felt that it would
be—or that at least, in reason, it ought to be—a
painful experience to look upon his old mistress with
a coldly critical eye ; and secondly, because, justify
to himself as he would his new-born indifference, he
could not entirely cast away the suspicion that it was
a last remnant of disease, and that, when he stood
on his legs again under the sky and among those
natural things with which he had long since estab-
lished a sort of sensuous communion, he would feel, as
with a tumultuous rush, the return of his impetuous
manhood and of his old capacity. When he had
smoked a pipe in the outer sunshine, when he had
settled himself once more to the long elastic bound of
his mare, then he would see Gertrude. The reason
of the change which had come upon him was that
she had disappointed him—she who had used to seem
to him above his measure altogether. She had
accepted Major Luttrel, a man whom he despised ;
she had so mutilated her magnificent nature as to
match it with his. The validity of his dislike to the
Major, Richard did not trouble himself to examine.
He accepted it as an unerring instinct ; and, indeed,
he might have asked himself, had he not sufficient
proof? Moreover he laboured under the sense of a
gratuitous wrong. He had suffered a great torment
of remorse to drive him into brutishness, and thence
to the very gates of death, for an offence which he
had deemed mortal, and which was, after all, but a
phantasm of his excited conscience. What a fool he
had been—a fool for his passionate fears, and a fool

485

POOR RICHARD

for his penitence! Marriage with Major Luttrel—
such was the end of Gertrude’s imagined anguish.
Such, too, we hardly need add, was the end of that
idea of reparation which had been so formidable to
Luttrel. Richard had been generous ; he would now
be just.

Far from impeding his recovery, these reflexions
hastened it. One morning in the beginning of August
Gertrude received notice that he was in her house.
It was a still, sultry day, and Miss Whittaker, her
habitual pallor deepened by the oppressive heat, was
sitting alone, in a white morning-dress, languidly
fanning aside at once the droning flies and her equally
importunate thoughts. She found the young man
standing in the middle of the drawing-room, booted
and spurred.

“ Well, Richard,’’ she exclaimed, with some feeling,
“at last you are willing to see me! ”

As his eyes fell upon her he started and stood
almost paralysed, heeding neither her words nor her
extended hand. It was not Gertrude he saw, but
her ghost.

“In heaven’s name, what has happened to you ? ”’
he cried. ‘‘ Have you been sick too ? ”’

Gertrude tried to smile, in feigned surprise at his
surprise ; but her muscles relaxed. Ruichard’s words
and looks reflected more vividly than any mirror the
blighted state of her person, the extreme misery of
her soul. She felt herself growing faint. She moved
backward to a sofa, and sank down.

Then Richard felt as if the room were revolving
about him and his throat were choked with impre-
cations—as if his old extravagant passion had again
taken possession of him, like a mingled legion of
devils and angels. It was through the most un-
expected pity that his love returned. He went for-
ward and dropped on his knees at Gertrude’s feet.

486

POOR RICHARD

‘““ Speak to me! ”’ he cried, seizing her hands. ‘“‘ Are
youunhappy? Isyourheart broken? Oh, Gertrude!
what have you come to? ”’

Gertrude drew her hands from his grasp and rose
to her feet. ‘‘ Get up, Richard,”’ she said. ‘‘ Don’t
talk so wildly. I am not well. I am very glad to
see you. Yow look well.”

“I have got my strength again—and meanwhile
you have been failing. You are unhappy, you are
wretched! Don’t say you are not, Gertrude: it’s as
plain as day. You are breaking your heart.”’

‘““The same old Richard!” said Gertrude, trying
to smile again. __

‘Would that you were the same old Gertrude !
Don’t try to smile ; you can’t!”

‘I shall!’ said Gertrude, desperately. “‘I am
going to be married, you know.”

‘Yes, I know. I don’t congratulate you.”

‘“‘T have not counted upon that honour, Richard.
I shall have to do without it.”

“You will have to do without a great many
things !’’ cried Richard, horrified by what seemed
to him her blind self-immolation.

“‘T have all I ask,” said Gertrude.

“You haven't all J ask, then! You haven't all
your friends ask.”

‘‘ My friends are very kind, but I marry to suit
myself.”’

“You have not suited yourself!’ retorted the
young man. ‘‘ You have suited—God knows what !
—your pride, your despair, your desolation! ’’ As
he looked at her the secret history of her weakness
seemed to become plain to him, and he felt a desire
to throttle the man who had taken a base advantage
of it. ‘‘ Gertrude!” he cried, “ I entreat you to go
back. It’s not for my sake—lI’ll give you up—I'll go
a thousand miles away, and never look at you again.

487

POOR RICHARD

It’s for your own. In the name of your happiness,
break with that man! Don’t fling yourself away.
Buy him off, if you consider yourself bound. Give
him your money. That’s all he wants.”

As Gertrude listened the blood came back to her
face and two flames into her eyes. She looked at
Richard from head to foot. ‘‘ You are not weak,”
she said, “‘ you are in your senses, you are well and
strong; you shall tell me what you mean. You
insult the best friend I have. Explain yourself! you
insinuate odious things—speak them out !’’ Her eyes
glanced toward the door, and Richard’s followed them.
Major Luttrel stood on the threshold.

“Come in, sir!’ cried Richard. ‘“‘ Gertrude swears
she will believe rio harm of you. Come and tell her
that she’s wrong! How can you keep on persecuting
a woman whom you have brought to this state?
Think of what she was three months ago, and look
at her now!”

Luttrel received this broadside without flinching ;
he had overheard Richard’s voice from the hall, and he
had steeled his heart for the encounter. He assumed
the air of having been so amazed by the young man’s
first words as only to have heard his last; and he
glanced at Gertrude mechanically, as if to comply
with them. ‘“ What’s the matter ? ”’ he asked, going
over to her and taking her hand; “are you ill?”
Gertrude let him have her hand, but she forbore to
meet his eyes.

“Til { of course she’s ill! ’’ cried Richard, passion-
ately. ‘‘ She’s dying—she’s consuming herself! I
know I seem to be playing an odious part here,
Gertrude, but, upon my soul, I can’t help it. I look
like a betrayer, an informer, a sneak, but I don’t feel
like one! Still, I will leave you, if you say so.”’

“ Shall he go, Gertrude ? ” asked Luttrel, without
looking at Richard.

488

POOR RICHARD

“No. Let him stay and explain himself. He has
accused you—let him prove his case.’

‘“‘T know what he is going to say,” said Luttrel.
“It will place me in a bad light. Do you still wish
to hear it?”

Gertrude drew her hand hastily out of Luttrel’s.
‘‘ Speak, Richard!” she cried, with a passionate
gesture.

“ Ah, you won't enjoy it,” said Richard. ‘‘ Ger-
trude, I have done you a vile wrong. How great
a wrong I never knew until I saw you to-day so
miserably altered. When I heard that you were to
be married I fancied that it didn’t matter much, and
that my remorse had been wasted. But I under-
stand it now, and he understands it too. You once
told me that you had ceased to love Captain Severn.
It wasn’t true—you never ceased to love him—you
love him at this moment. If he were to get another
wound in the next battle, how would you feel—how
would you bear that ?’’ And Richard paused for an
instant, with the force of his interrogation.

“For God’s sake,” said Gertrude, “respect the
dead!”

“The dead! Is he dead ? ”’

Gertrude covered her face with her hands.

“You beast !’’ cried Luttrel.

Richard turned upon him savagely. ‘‘ You’re a
precious one to talk! ’’ he roared. ‘‘ You told me he
was alive and well! ’’

Gertrude made a movement of speechless distress.

“You would have it, my dear,” said Luttrel, in a
superior tone.

Richard had turned pale, he began to tremble.
‘“‘ Excuse me, Gertrude,” he said hoarsely, “I have
been deceived. Poor, unhappy woman! Gertrude,”
he continued, going nearer to her and speaking in
a whisper, ‘“ J killed him.”’ .

489

POOR RICHARD

Gertrude fell back from him, as he approached
her, with a look of unutterable horror. ‘‘ I and he,’’
Richard went on, pointing at Luttrel.

Gertrude’s eyes followed the direction of his gesture,
and transferred their scorching disgust to her suitor.
This was too much for Luttrel’s courage. ‘‘ You
eternal tormentor,’’ she moaned at Richard, “ speak
out!”

‘He loved you, though you believed he didn’t,”’
said Richard. ‘I saw it the first time I looked at
him. To every one but you it was as plain as day.
Major Luttrel saw it too. But he was too modest,
and he never believed you cared for him. The night
before he went back to the army he came to bid you
good-bye. If he had seen you it would have been
better for every one. You remember that evening,
of course. We met him, Luttrel and I. He was all
on fire—he meant to speak. I knew it; you knew
it, Luttrel : it was in his fingers’ ends. I intercepted
him. I turned him off—lI lied to him and told him
you were absent from home. I was a coward, and
I did neither more nor less than that. I knew you
were waiting for him. It was stronger than my will
—I believe I should do it again. Fate was against
him, and he went off. I came back to tell you, but
my damnable jealousy strangled me. I went home
and drank myself into a fever. I have done you a
wrong that I can never repair. I would go hang
myself if I thought it would help you.” Richard
spoke slowly, softly, explicitly, as if irresistible Justice
in person had her hand upon his neck and were
forcing him down upon his knees. In the presence
of Gertrude’s dismay nothing seemed possible but
perfect self-conviction. In Luttrel’s attitude, as he
stood with his head erect, his arms folded, and his
cold grey eye fixed upon the distance, it struck him
that there was something atrociously insolent; not

490

POOR RICHARD

insolent to him—for that he cared little enough—
but insolent to Gertrude and to the dreadful solemnity
of the hour. Richard sent the Major a look of the
most aggressive contempt. ‘“‘ As for Major Luttrel,”
he said, “‘fe was but a passive spectator. No,
Gertrude, by heaven!” he burst out; “he was
worse than I! I loved you, and he didn’t ! ”’

‘“‘ Our friend is correct in his facts, Gertrude,’ said
Luttrel, quietly. ‘‘ He is incorrect in his inferences.
I was a passive spectator of his deception. He
appeared to enjoy a certain authority with regard to
your wishes—the source of which I respected both of
you sufficiently never to question—and I accepted
the act which he has described as an exercise of it.
You will remember that you had sent us away on
the ground that you were in no humour for company.
To represent you, therefore, to another visitor as
absent seemed to me rather officious, but still pardon-
able. You will consider that I was wholly ignorant
of your relations to that visitor; that whatever you
may have done for others, Gertrude, to me you never
vouchsafed a word of information on the subject, and
that Mr. Maule’s words are a revelation to me. But
I am bound to believe nothing that he says. I am
bound to believe that I have injured you only when
I hear it from your own lips.”’

Richard made a movement as if to break out upon
the Major; but Gertrude, who had been standing
motionless, with her eyes upon the ground, quickly
raised them, and gave him a look of imperious pro-
hibition. She had listened, and she had chosen. She
turned to Luttrel. ‘* Major Luttrel,’’ she said, “ you
have been accessory to something that has been for
me a very serious pain. It is my duty to tell you so.
I mean, of course, a perfectly unwilling accessory.
I pity you more than I can tell you. I think your
' position more pitiable than mine. It is true that I

491

POOR RICHARD

never made a confidant of you. I never made one
of Richard. I had a secret, and he surprised it.
You were less fortunate.” It might have seemed to
a dispassionate observer that in these last four words
there was an infinitesimal touch of tragic irony.
Gertrude paused a moment while Luttrel eyed her
intently, and Richard, from a somewhat tardy instinct
of delicacy, walked over to the bow-window. ‘‘ This
is' the most distressing moment of my life,”’ she
resumed. “I hardly know where my duty lies. The
only thing that is plain to me is that I must ask
you to release me from my engagement. I ask it
most humbly, Major Luttrel,’’ Gertrude continued,
with warmth in her words and a chilling coldness in
her voice—a coldness which it sickened her to feel
there, but which she was unable to dispel. ‘I can’t
expect that you should give me up easily; I know
that it’s a great deal to ask, and ’’—she forced the
chosen words out of her mouth—“ I should thank
you more than I can say if you would put some con-
dition upon my release. You have done honourably
by me, and I repay you with ingratitude. But I
can’t marry you.” Her voice began to melt. “I
have been false from the beginning. I have no heart
to give you. I should make you a despicable wife.”
The Major, too, had listened and chosen, and in
this trying conjuncture he set the seal to his character
as an accomplished man. He saw that Gertrude’s
movement was final, and he determined not to protest
against the inscrutable. He read in the glance of her
eye and the tone of her voice that the perfect dignity
had fallen from his character—that his integrity had
lost its bloom; but he also read her firm resolve
never to admit this fact to her own mind nor to
declare it to the world, and he was gratified by her
forbearance. His hopes, his ambitions, his visions,
lay before him like a heap of broken glass ; but he

492

POOR RICHARD

would be as graceful as she was. She had divined him,
but she had spared him. The Major was inspired.

“‘ You have at least spoken to the point,” he said.
“You leave no room for doubt or for hope. With
the little light I have I can’t say I understand your
feelings, but I yield to them religiously. I believe so
thoroughly that you suffer from the thought of what
you ask of me that I will not increase your suffering
by assuring you of my own. I care for nothing but
your happiness. You have lost it, and I give you
mine to replace it. And although it’s a simple thing
to say,” he added, “‘ I must remark that I thank you
for your implicit faith in my integrity.’’ And he held
out his hand. As she gave him hers Gertrude felt
horribly in the wrong; and she looked into his eyes
with an expression so humble, so appealing, so grate-
ful, that, after all, his exit may be called triumphant.

When he had gone Richard turned from the window
with a tremendous sense of relief. He had heard
Gertrude’s speech, and he knew that perfect justice
had not been‘done ; but still there was enough to be
thankful for. Yet now that his duty was accom-
plished, he was conscious of a sudden lassitude.
Mechanically he looked at Gertrude, and almost
mechanically he came towards her. She, on her side,
looking at him as he walked slowly down the long
room, his face indistinct against the deadened light
of the white-draped windows behind him, marked the
expression of his figure with another pang. ‘‘ He has
rescued me,” she said to herself; “‘ but his passion
has perished in the tumult. Richard,’ she said aloud,
uttering the first words of vague kindness that came
into her mind, “ I forgive you.”

Richard stopped. The idea had lost its charm.
“You are very kind,” he said, wearily. ‘ You are
far too kind. How do you know you forgive me?
‘Wait and see.”

493

POOR RICHARD

Gertrude looked at him as she had never looked
before; but he saw nothing of it. He saw a sad,
plain girl, in a white dress, nervously handling her
fan. He was thinking of himself. If he had been
thinking of her he would have read in her lingering,
upward gaze that he had won her ; and if, so reading,
he had opened his arms Gertrude would have come
to them. We trust the reader is not shocked at this
piece of information. She neither hated him nor
despised him, as she ought doubtless in consistency
to have done. She felt that there was a gallantry
in him, after all, and in this new phase he pleased her.
Richard, on his side, felt humbly the same truth, and
he began to respect himself. The past had closed
abruptly behind him, and poor tardy Gertrude had
been shut in. The future was dimly shaping itself
without her image. So he did not open his arms.

“‘ Good-bye,”’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I
may not see you again for a long time.”

Gertrude felt as if the world were deserting her.
‘“ Are you going away ? ” she asked, tremulously.

“‘T mean to sell out and pay my debts, and go to
the war.”’

She gave him her hand, and he silently shook it.
There was no contending against the war, and she
gave him up.

With their separation my story properly ends, and
to say more would be to begin a new story. It is
perhaps my duty, however, expressly to add that
Major Luttrel, in obedience to a logic of his own,
abstained from revenge; and that, if time has not
avenged him, it has at least rewarded him. General
Luttrel, who lost an arm before the war was over,
recently married Miss Van Winkel, of Philadelphia,
and seventy thousand a year. Richard engaged in
the defence of his country, with a commission in the
Volunteers, obtained with much difficulty. He saw

494

POOR RICHARD

a great deal of fighting, but he has no scars to show.
The return of peace found him in his native place,
without a home and without resources. One of his
first acts was to call dutifully and respectfully upon
Miss Whittaker, whose circle of acquaintance was
now much enlarged, and included even people who
came from Boston to stay with her. Gertrude’s
manner was kindness itself, but a more studied kind-
ness than before. She had lost much of her youth
and her simplicity. Richard wondered whether she
had pledged herself to spinsterhood, but of course he
didn’t ask her. She inquired very particularly into
his material prospects and intentions, and offered
urgently to lend him money, which he declined to
borrow. When he left her he took a long walk
through her place and beside the river, and, wander-
ing back to the days when he had yearned for her
love, assured himself that no woman would ever
again be to him what she had been. During his
stay in this neighbourhood he became reconciled to
one of the old agricultural magnates whom he had
insulted in his unregenerate days, and through whom
he was glad to obtain some momentary employment.
But his present position is very distasteful to him,
and he is eager to try his fortunes in the West. As
yet, however, he has lacked the means to emigrate
with advantage. He drinks no more than is good
for him. To speak of Gertrude’s impressions of
Richard would lead us quite too far. Shortly after
his return she broke up her household, and came to
the bold resolution (bold, that is, for a woman young,
unmarried, and ignorant of manners in her own
country) to spend some time in Europe. At our last
accounts she was living in the ancient city of Florence.
Her great wealth, of which she was wont to complain
that it excluded her from human sympathy, now
affords her a most efficient protection. She passes

495

POOR RICHARD

among her fellow-countrymen abroad for a very in-
dependent, but a very contented woman ; although,
as she is by this time nearly thirty years of age, some
little romantic episode in the past is vaguely alluded
to as accounting for her continued celibacy.

THE END

Printed in Great Britain by R. & R. Crarx, Liniren, Edinburgh

THE NOVELS AND STORIES OF
HENRY JAMES

New and Complete Edition. In 35 Volumes.
Issued in two styles. Crown 8vo, 75s. 6a. net per volume.
Pocket Edition. Fcap, 8vo. 75. 6d. net per volume.

The text used in this issue is that of the ‘‘ New York ” edition,
and the critical prefaces written for that series are retained in the
volumes to which they refer. While, however, many stories were
omitted from the ‘‘ New Yofk” editi@n, either because they did not
satisfy their author’s later taSte; ‘ot bécause he could not find room
for them in the lim{ted-space. at-his disposal, the present edition
contains all the fictiqn’ that, he published jn“book-form during his
life. The only wri ‘which -have beth excluded are a small
number of very early pices, contributed to magazines and never
reprinted, and the*plays, : : ‘%

LIST OF THE VOLUMES

I, Roderick Hudson, ae
II. The American.
III. The Europeans.
IV. Confidence.
V. Washington Square.
VI. The Portrait of a Lady. Vol. I.
VII. The Portrait of a Lady. Vol. II.
VIII, The Bostonians. Vol. I.
IX. The Bostonians, Vol. IT.
X. The Princess Casamassima. Vol. I.
XI. The Princess Casamassima. Vol. II.
XII. The Tragic Muse. Vol. I.
XIII. The Tragic Muse. Vol. II.
XIV. The Awkward Age.
XV. The Spoils of Poynton—A London Life—The Chaperon.
XVI, What Maisie Knew—In the Cage—The Pupil.
XVII. The Aspern Papers—The Turn of the Screw-——The Liar-—
The Two Faces.
XVIII. The Reverberator—Madame de Mauves—A Passionate
Pilgrim-—-The Madonna of the Future— Louisa
Pallant.
XIX. Lady Barbarina—The Siege of London—An Inter-
national Episode -- The Pension Beaurepas-— A
Bundle of Letters—The Point of View.
XX. The Lesson of the Master—The Death of the Lion—
The Next Time—The Figure in the Carpet—The
Coxon Fund.

LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., Lrp.

THE NOVELS AND STORIES: OF
HENRY JAMES

LIST OF THE VOLUMES—Continued.

XXI. The Author of Beltraffio—The Middle Years—Greville
Fane—Broken Wings—The Tree of Knowledge—
The Abasement of the Northmores—The Great
Good Place —Four Meetings —~ Paste-— Europe—
Miss Gunton of Poughkeepsie—Fordham Castle.
XXII. The Altar of the Dead—The Beast in the Jungle—The
Birthplace—The Private Life—Owen Wingrave—
The Friends of the Friends—-Sir Edmund en
me Real Right Thing—The Jolly Corner—Julia
ride.
XXIII. Daisy Miller — Pandora — The Pa ia — The
Marriages—The Real Thing —Brooksmith — The
Beldonald Holbein—The Story in it—¥lickerbridge
—Mrs. Medwin.
XXIV. Watch and Ward—Longstaff's Marriage— Eugene
Pickering—Benvolio—Impressions of a Cousin.
XXV, Diary of a Man of Fifty—A New England Winter—
he Path of Duty—-A Day of Days—A Light Man
—Georgina’s Reasons—A Landscape Painter —
Rose-Agathe—Poor Richard.
XXVI. Last of the Valerii—Master Eustace—Romance of
Certain Old Clothes—A Most Extraordinary Case
—The Modern Warning—Mrs. Temperley—The
Solution—Sir Dominick Ferrand—Nona Vincent.
XXVII. Lord Beaupré—The Visits—The Wheel of Time—
Collaboration—Glasses The Great Condition—
The Given Case—John Delavoy—The Third Person
—The Tone of Time. :
XXVIHI. Maud Evelyn—The Special Type—The Papers—-The
elvet Glove—Mora Montravers—Crapy Cornelia
—A Round of Visits—The Bench of Desolation.
XXIX. The Sacred Fount.
XXX. The Wings of the Dove. Vol. I.
XXXI. The Wings of the Dove. Vol. II.
XXXII. The Ambassadors, Vol. I
XXXITI. The Ambassadors. Vol. IT.
XXXIV. The Golden Bow!. Vol, I.

XXXV. The Golden Bowl. Vol. II.
LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., Eyp.